Facts Concerning the Strange Case of Wonderland
by Kount Xero
Summary: This contains all the documentation concerning the events that took place betwen November 12 and December 8, 1870 that revolved around Alice Liddell, a patient in the Rutledge Asylum, and her strange ailment that was often given the name "Wonderland."
1. Prologue (Alice's Pain)

_Author's Note: This story at one point diverges from Wilson's casebook and goes off on its own, but instead has its own continuity, of sorts. It stemmed largely from my inability to delve into my favourite thing in the world. I hope you enjoy it. If you do, please drop a line. I will attempt to interfere with the narrative with ANs as little as possible. And, as we are obligated: I don't own much._

"_**Facts Concerning the Strange Case of Wonderland"**_

**Prologue**

"_But I don't want to go among mad people." Alice remarked._

"_Oh, you can't help that." Said the Cat, "We're all mad here... I'm mad. You haven't been anything but mad for a good long while..."_

"_How do you know that I am mad?" said Alice._

"_You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't torture yourself like this."_

_Alice didn't want to admit that somehow that proved it; thus, she went on, "and how do you know you're mad?"_

"_To begin with," said the Cat, "pain isn't good. You grant that?"_

"_I suppose so." said Alice._

"_Well then," the Cat went on, "you see, most people don't take pleasure in pain and tend to avoid people that suffer; those bonded with impossible amounts of agony are bound to be alone. Isolation, loneliness; both of them nest in their heads and consume them from within – they are avoided by others, even others just as isolated. I am still standing close to you; eventhough you are in pain. Therefore, I am mad."_

"_I wouldn't call it pain." said Alice._

"_Call it whatever you like," said the Cat, "Do you take more of that awful experimental medicine to-day?"_

"_I don't want to." said Alice, "They make me take them. I don't like it, Cat, not anymore."_

"_Well, pet," said the Cat, "unfortunate as it may be for the both of us, it is not in my power to stop it."_

"_I want it gone." said Alice, "I want all of this gone. I can't do this anymore."_

"_Oh, but you can't help it," said the Cat, "for I cannot stay here with you. Not for long."_

"_Cat, no!" shouted Alice, but the Cat was already gone, leaving behind only a hint of its grin._

_Although Alice cried out, inside, she was not much surprised at this, she was getting used to being left alone in the dark. While she was desperately trying to hold onto the Cat's echoes, it suddenly returned._

"_By-the-bye, why are you still asleep?" said the Cat, "Isn't it almost three o'clock?"_

"_I think I am about to wake up..." Alice quietly said, as if knowing that she was in a dream helped it somewhat._

"_I thought you would." said the Cat._

At this the entire scenery faded instantly, and the ceiling above her came crashing down: she screamed, as loud as she could, and tried to wriggle herself free, and found herself strapped to a bed, with her hair damp on her face, some strands in her mouth, choking her.

Alice closed her eyes, only for a moment, trying to return to the dream... but the dream escaped. Alice's mind closed in on itself and she did the only thing she could: she screamed.


	2. November 12, 1870 - Wilson

"_**Facts Concerning the Strange Case of Wonderland"**_

**Doctor Hieronymous Q. Wilson's Personal Journal, November 12, 1870**

I CAN NOT bear this any longer. The abysmal recesses of Her mind are both captivating and deceptive at the same time; often times She resembles a venus mantrap. She haunts my dreams, I cannot spend a single waking hour without being consumed by thoughts of Her. Her existence is slowly eating away at mine – as if I am nothing without Her, as if, as perverse as this might appear, I LOVE Her. She invades me. The Dreamchild invades me.

Asleep or awake, it matters little

I cannot stop thinking about Her. I cannot stop dreaming of Her.

I have turned in my resignation about an hour ago; this will be my final entry into this casebook. I have made arrangements to get away from Ruthledge's – several members of my family reside in Cheshire, so perhaps I shall join them.

or perhaps, I shall join Her in Her sleep, take my rightful place in the unforunates' ward.

There is still no word of Reverend Dodgson.

HE KNOWS.


	3. November 12, 1870 - Harland

"_**Facts Concerning the Strange Case of Wonderland"**_

**Harland Edison's Personal Journal, November 12, 1870**

My day was punctuated with an anonymous letter that seemingly had nothing unusual about its arrival: I acquired it from the postman, along with items of personal correspondences from Oxford, Cheshire and London. The white envelope, slightly worn from the immense humidity surrounding it, contained neither the name of the sender nor where it was intended to go. Across the letter's surface in sharp, black ink, was the inscription: _Harland Edison._

I must admit that my curiosity was piqued by this nondescript yet oddly specific call for my attention, and it had succeeded to such a degree that I abandoned all of the other letters where I stood, directing my undivided attention to the one calling for me. The envelope contained no regional markings, and it did not appear to have a stamp, which led me to believe that it was carried on from person to person in a long and deliberate chain of carriers; quite naturally, this meant that it was intended for me especially, but had to find me without being followed. Thusly, I wager it found its way through an anonymous but nonetheless traceable (if one were to go from person to person) network of people, to the post office. That it had been delivered alongside my regularly expected mail suggested that the penultimate carrier was someone that the postman knew, or that the mail sorter was a link in this chain.

I retreated to my study and seated myself in the armchair adjacent to the window and pried open the curtains just a tad in order to make most use of natural light. I did not have any wish to employ the carbon filament lamp, as it still was an object of curiosity for me, and I had no intention of be distracted from the letter.

It was obvious through the journey it had been through that it must have been important.

The letter enclosed was a singular page, folded into quarters, with no prints of fingers or stray strands of hair atop it and hence no indication as to the identity of its sender. It did, however, carry a strange aroma, almost like perfume. Once I unfolded it and managed to get to the rather pristine text, I understood immediately: it had been written by a woman's hand.

_Dear Mister Edison,_

_Before everything, allow me to apologize for keeping my name a secret. It is pivotal that you trust that I have certain reasons for wanting to remain anonymous, and that you understand that the reasons for that pertain to what I hope will be your new assignment. Your talents as a private investigator are renowned in places you can scarcely imagine, and your reportedly impressive skills lead me to believe that you might be in a position to help in a most grave matter._

_I was also informed by rather dubious, yet strangely trustworthy, sources that you have on occasion dabbled in matters many would consider to be unnatural. If I may be blunt, I think your experience in the occult may be of use to me._

_I will not delay any further. I am sure you are familiar with the case, but for clarity's sake, I will give you a brief history of what I hope will be your new assignment: in 1863, the Liddell estate in Oxford burned to the ground. The entire family, save for the fourth daughter, Alice, perished in the inferno. She has been confined to the Ruthledge's Asylum ever since, and no progress has been made in her case. It is not her case, however, that I wish you will accept to investigate._

I knew of the case. I had followed it out of sheer curiosity, and had watched, much as I could, as little Alice, dressed in the asylum rags, was dragged to court to be accused of setting the fire that would destroy the only life she had ever known. Several testimonies, mostly from her supposed friends, indicated that she was rather odd, but I had dismissed those speculations on the simple basis that she could not be expected to function normally, not after what had happened.

But the case was rather infamous in the way that it had branched into several people, some well-known and some not, who all brought in their quaint little theories about what had happened and why. The range was vast, going from neighbors of the family to Sirs John Tenniel and John Ruskin. At one time even the infamous mad hatter, Theophilus Carter had been interviewed, though he did not have much to say on the matter, except that he had forgotten to fix his watch and now it was stuck on tea-time.

_I have reason to suspect that the fire itself was caused by far more than mere accident, in fact, I have reason to suspect that what claimed most of the Liddell family was nothing short of deliberate arson. What I am more or less convinced, however, is that the source of the arson might not have been entirely... earthbound._

Spirits? Phantasms? While I had, on many an occasion, dabbled in the matters of metaphysics and had seen my fair share of unsettling phenomena, this was the first time I had heard of such a notion. Spirits that can set fire to houses. I was more than interested by this point.

_What I am asking of you is to find out what happened that night, why and by whom._

The text continued on the back of the page, and I had to admit that I was very, very curious now. How did that saying go? "Curioser and curioser," I believe. Yes, that was very much the case.

One point of concern was that this correspondent, who would most likely divulge the details of what she hoped would be my new assignment on the back of the letter, seemed to have detailed knowledge about my rather objectionable practices in alchemy, practical magick, spirit-speech and dream-walking. It was strange that only those who knew those that practiced these rather dark arts appeared to have an inkling of who was dabbling in what, and yet this nameless correspondent seemed to know. Yes, curioser indeed.

_Should you accept the assignment, as I hope that you shall, you will receive an steady payment, delivered every Monday via a postman._

_A_ postman, not _the._ My correspondent seemed to anticipate that I would not be present in my home during this assignment, which made me consider, briefly, just what kind of power she had to be wielding in order to assure me of weekly payments, no matter where I was. I briefly entertained the idea that this might have been an elaborate joke. I dismissed it immediately - no joke would be elaborate to this degree.

_I will be offering 50 pounds, even, for your services, per week you are in my employ. This service fee will be delivered to you in the fashion of this letter you are reading._

_There are, however, certain conditions that you must follow, should you accept. The first is that this case will be your first and only priority, in that everything else you might have on your hands will lose their significance. This case will be your everything until you have determined exactly what happened in that house seven years ago._

_Second is that you must never, ever, under any circumstance attempt to find or contact me, apart from anonymous correspondences you will deliver to certain persons I will designate, regarding certain news that I have to recieve. Should you break this condition, I shan't shirk from exposing your rather objectionable practices to those who are, as of yet, uninformed. I am not one for threats, Mister Edison, but I do hold a considerable amount of weight with the right sort of people, and I am generously giving you an honest-to-goodness option to refuse._

_Third, final, but never least, I want you to also inquire as to the whereabouts of Reverend Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, one-time friend of the Liddell family, who wrote one rather famous book about Alice and a place called Wonderland. He appears to have vanished, and I have reason to suspect that he has something to do with your case._

_Please send the reply in the same envelope as I have presented to you, be it your acceptance or rejection of my proposal. All you need to do in order to ensure your reply's delivery to me is to hand the letter back to the post office._

_Kind regards, and I am anxiously waiting for your answer._

_-Miss_

Her choice of a nickname revealed that she was either unmarried, or a widower, another clue as to her identity. Of course, her written voice had left me with the impression that she had been a close friend of the Liddell family, or was a distant Liddell herself. There was always the possibility that she was, of course, a completely unrelated person whom had some sort of a connection to the case itself, but chances of that were rather slim.

I must admit that although I was curious, I did not take kindly to threats, no matter how flimsy they might have been. The only thing that stayed me from actually dismissing the letter out of hand was the clearly mad amount of payment being offered. My two-days' wage normally did not exceed 16/0 and though I had been doing considerably well, I was not desperate for money. I could get by easily without this assignment, and not that I had any others demanding my attention, but I could be more useful revisiting the wildly differing accounts of third- and fourth-hand witnesses to fringe events in the lives of the deceased.

However, all of my considerations paled in comparison to the fact that I was being offered 50/0/0 even, per week, which was a considerable amount.

I'd have to be mad to pass on that kind of offer.

I went to my desk, letter and envelope in hand, and scribbled only two words on the envelope: _I accept._

Before I placed the letter back in the envelope, I produced a duplicate, copying her handwriting to the best of my ability.


	4. November 13, 1870 - Mary

"_**Facts Concerning the Strange Case of Wonderland"**_

**Nurse Mary Duckett's Personal Journal, November 13, 1870**

My good doctor Hieronymous has deserted the asylum, and myself alongside, and I know not what to do with myself at present, a state of being that he has always encouraged as a sign of my (admittedly fragile) sanity. It is perhaps better for him that he reside as far from this house of lost souls as possible, but I shan't deny that it will not be such a nice arrangement for myself.

Selflessness was a virtue that my good doctor used in treating my ailment. It was his contention that were it not for my rather shameless self-aggrandizement through the notion of being utterly important, or important enough, that there'd naturally be ever-present conspiracies angled towards my demise, I would be completely sane. It was within that singular, focused thought that I managed to find my composition and became who I am today. All thanks to my good doctor.

But presently, it is as I had always feared. I had always harbored a worry that no sane man would be able to withstand the constant assault brought on by the fortunates that come and go at irregular intervals and the unfortunates that walk in through the doors and always stay. Having had the chance to be subjected to Hieronymous' well-meaning and highly effective ministrations, I harbor no doubt that were the situation anything but the absolute worst, he would be here, slaving away in an environment that shows nothing but hostility and misunderstanding towards him.

This feeling, however, is nothing compared to my steadily mounting dread that something is on the horizon, and is fast approaching. It is a needless worry, I suppose, but I have known Hieronymous for quite some time now and never before or since have I seen a man of such strong will of composition. His strength lay not in anything physical, it wasn't related to all the sleepless nights he has so willingly sunken into this place, or the many times he came to within an inch of his life because of a lunatic with a fork; his strength was always in his will. That it took nothing but a small child, a rather tragic little girl to slowly dissolve it until there was no strength remaining, save for that of the will to run away, still astounds me.

Had I known that Alice Pleasance Liddell was capable of such a feat, I would never have shown any lenience. I would never have tried to help her.

That is such a wrong thing to say, I know.

I cannot help but feel unnerved by her. The circumstances surrounding her arrival were most peculiar and her condition, unaffected by my good doctor's best efforts, be they chemical or no, is far more perplexing than any other case we have here. In the wake of my good doctor's departure, I took the liberty of examining his notes, and came across various drawings Alice had submitted. I am seldom disturbed by such innocuous things, despite the fact that imagination is at times a vile and disturbing thing, but her methods of expression are most disturbing. Her penchant for the macabre, the distorted and unnatural, and her application of animals to human form, and even that human-like forms to further mutilations…

Of course, my attention to the case did not escape the rather watchful eye of our superintendent. Mister Ruthledge called upon me mere hours after I had gone through my good doctor's case files, just to refresh my memory. I went to his office just as soon as I had safely returned every material I had examined to their proper places. My good doctor would want it so. (Who knows? He might return...)

I can, of course, never quite get past how imposing a man Lucas Ruthledge is, God forgive me. He is taller than most men, and thin as a rail, with spider-like, long fingers and white hair that flows in thin, dull strands. His sharp, pointed nose and bright blue, gleaming eyes give him the impression of a veritable giant, a force to be reckoned with. I have yet to see him angered or frustrated, "though his movements, minute, calm and flowing into one another, suggest a high degree of control on his part, which would include a firm grip on his emotions." Or so my good doctor always said. I know not of such things, but I do know that his choice of office, the southmost room, is somewhat depressing in the way that it is perpetually dim, if not outright dark.

As always, he was waiting for me behind his rosewood desk, fingers of one hand rapping, in quick succession as a tremolo, on the surface.

"Come in, Nurse Duckett." He said, and with a movement of his hand and an extension of those spider-like fingers, he beckoned me. I complied and seated myself in one of the guest chairs in front of his desk. He remained silent, gazing at me, and then, softly, began to speak, "I'm sure that you are aware of Doctor Wilson's resignation."

"Yes sir."

"And the circumstance?"

"I'm afraid so, sir."

"Good. That saves me some time. Doctor Wilson, before leaving, left me the name of a colleague, whom he held to very high esteem. I have made the necessary arrangements for him to handle the case of Alice Liddell, as well as that of several others he was busy with. What I require from you, aside from your usual utmost diligence in the matter, is to treat Doctor Bennett as though he were Doctor Wilson himself."

I have to admit, I was a little offended by this. Despite my various shortcomings, I pride myself in performing my duties to the best of my abilities and as such, I did not appreciate such off-hand implication. However, Lucas Ruthledge is my employer, and it wouldn'tve done to protest at such a minor thing.

"I will perform my duties to the best of my abilities, sir."

"Of that, I have no doubt. My concern is mostly due to your… er, special relationship, if you will, with Doctor Wilson."

I was, admittedly, offended.

"He helped me. That is the extent of my special relationship with him. He did not continue helping me, he simply helped me stand on my own feet. I owe it to him to be the best I can possibly be."

"Which is why I feel confident in handing you this case, Nurse Duckett. You are to be Doctor Bennett's aide in this matter, and I do expect you to continue with your work. Nothing further."

"Thank you, sir."

I bowed my head and got up to leave. He waited for me to get to the door to speak once more.

"And I trust Doctor Wilson's case files are secure in their vault?"

I didn't quite like the implication, again, but this time, I didn't mind it so much as think it superfluous to state.

"Yes, sir."

"I admire your commitment, Nurse Duckett. Make sure you give Doctor Bennett your full cooperation and let him know the extent of what he will be dealing with. We can never be too cautious."

Of that, I was absolutely certain.

As I returned to my quarters, Northeast wing, I passed through the unfortunates' ward. It's a habit I have developed over the years, working for Hieronymous. I pass through their territory in order to remind myself where I would have been – it is akin to visiting a possible past, or a fond regret. A sense of what was, juxtaposed against a very clear vision of what would have been, had it not been for some intervening thing that to me carries the name of Hieronymous Q. Wilson.

The ward usually is ululating with their noise; their protestations and lamentations fill the air; and the dim corridors and stone walls take on the eeriness that the residents of the hall bring. They have an uncanny ability to sense who is walking through their hallways, as they are, or have become in the span of decades, the hallways themselves. The sensation of being removed from the asylum itself, if not from everything else as well, floods me instantly as I enter that corridor. Every time. And while the damned inside their cells scream, wail, taunt and curse at all the others, they somehow don't make a sound when I pass through. The cells behind me start their rambling and the cells in front gradually lessen until I am at level with them. I become a wave, silencing them.

I always get an inescapable notion that, their silence isn't respectful, watchful, or of any other comforting sort; it is welcoming, it is acceptant, it is expectant and it is courteous. I believe they seldom unleash their ramblings and their noise upon me because they recognize me as one of them, not one of the others.

There are times, believe you me, that I wish I wasn't here. However, the asylum has a strange way of welcoming some of its guests, and those guests usually fall in between the lines dividing the fortunates from the unfortunates. Like Grace Halloway or the caretaker, Mister Norbert, we are the fortunate ones that have grown to love Ruthledge's like a home, a home that once was the scene of our greatest fears and most dire precipices which now becomes shelter from the cold, a place to call our own. Although our self-contained quarters are all we have, I do not mind it one bit, and I know the others do not either; it's all we have, and we intend to make the best of it.

I suppose Hieronymous learned the hard way that once you allow yourself to be immersed in the asylum, there is no place left for you in the real world anymore.


	5. November 15, 1870 - Bennett

"_**Facts Concerning the Strange Case of Wonderland"**_

**Doctor Aaron Agustus Bennett's Personal Journal, November 15, 1870**

I must admit that I am slightly surprised at the news that my esteemed colleague and long-time friend Hieronymous not only has resigned from his duties in Ruthledge's Asylum, but he has left my name with the superintendent as a viable ("if not the only," as the superintendent, Lucas Ruthledge, put it) alternative. Further, I am appalled to hear that the reason for his resignation is that he has come close to madness himself, a rumor that I will not give any credence to, because such is only the fate of the weak-willed.

This ordeal has something to do with the now-infamous case of Alice Pleasance Liddell.

I must also admit that I am most perturbed by these news, being familiar with the case at hand and having, on occasion, provided Hieronymous with guidance regarding the chemical mixtures he used in his ministrations. It speaks ill of my own conduct. However, the fact of the matter is, and I do say this with the least amount of pride possible, I am a master chemist and he is a very skillful therapist. Of course, my inclinations towards the use of barbiturate-based mixtures as non-sedation measures were always met with some disapproval, but his opiate-based choices of laudanum and camphor blends were met with even lesser success.

I digress.

Despite the fact that his methods have failed, through little fault of their own inherent weaknesses I am sure, the most alarming development is that Hieronymous has abandoned his practice altogether. I am under the impression that he chose me not due to my familiarity with the case but because he believed I would, given the incentive, take it. I admit, I am very, very curious, now more than ever, to see what this puzzling, seemingly incurable Alice is like; and, I am fairly certain that all the little habits and quirks she has harbored or generated during her long-winded stay in Ruthledge's will make for one unique study.

And, in all honesty, I do harbor a desire to triumph where my colleague has failed. It is not entirely his fault, but I have always been among those who viewed his actual skills to high esteem while never disregarding how many favors his connections in academic circles (especially his acquaintance with John Ruskin) have afforded him throughout the years. What saves my intended course of action from being an exercise in vanity and pride, however, is the undisputable fact that whatever I will accomplish will undoubtedly contribute to our field. I do have more than half a mind to try a new and as-of-yet unorthodox method of hypnotherapy. I haven't had much experience with it, I'll admit, but I do believe that mesmerism may prove to be an important tool in curing Ms. Liddell.

I have, earlier today, sent word that I have accepted the assignment and am now in the process of gathering my things, among which is some chemical equipment to compensate for the lack of what I am sure will be a rather sparse chemical lab in Ruthledge's. I also have in my possession Hieronymous' casebook, which I believe will allow me to have a certain amount of foreknowledge. Perhaps -I hope- I can pinpoint where things went so utterly wrong and help in making them right.


	6. September 2, 1870 - Wilson

"_**Facts Concerning the Strange Case of Wonderland"**_

**Doctor Hieronymous Q. Wilson's Journal, September 2, 1870**

Smoking opium as a means to sedate myself has not only failed, but it has also introduced a brand new hallucinatory notion to me that I, damn me, recognize both from one of her drawings and from my own past experiences.

I remembered during my opium-induced fugue that I had had hallucinations of the sort before, and it was, according to my dream journal, during my first delirious forays into the abysmal depths of Wonderland.

The repeating notion was caterpillars. Caterpillars in the smoke. All over my body, my clothes, my tongue; between my teeth and toes, crawling in the back of my throat, slithering up my leg… countless, bright blue caterpillars trailing my body.

And regarding this clearly fantastical notion, I have written in my dream journal, a single sentence, which I seemed to have underlined. It reads: _"The Caterpillar is Wise."_

It's becoming difficult to maintain my grip on everything. All is slipping away.

Charles Dodgson will not return my letters.


	7. October 13, 1870 - Octavius

"_**Facts Concerning the Strange Case of Wonderland"**_

**Letter sent to Lucas Ruthledge, sent October 13, 1870**

Dear Lucas,

I'm afraid I have grave news. About four days ago, our good friend Theophilus Carter's shop burned to the ground. His wife, the lovely Mary Ann, and his sons William and Frederick, have perished in the fire. I was among those who saw the smoke and henceforth I rushed to the scene of the fire as fast as I could, shouting for the fire brigade as loud as I could manage. I found our good friend Theophilus there, right in front of the burning building, with one of his famous top hats on. Held in one of his hands was a torch. When I arrived at his side, I saw that he was watching everything burn with his face fixated on an expression that I could only describe as morbid fascination. I couldn't help but shudder at how inhumanly focused and, Lord have mercy, amused he looked. Yes, the look on his face was unmistakably that of amusement.

I could hear him muttering to himself now that I was close to him, and he was repeating one word: "Perfect. Perfect. Perfect."

Beside myself, I reached out and grabbed him by the shoulders. I shook him, in attempt to break his horrid trance. My success became evident when Theophilus took one good look at me and, without waiting another heartbeat, flew into a venomous rage. He waved the torch around, wielding it like a sword, and took his pocket watch by the chain. Swinging the watch and the torch, he came at me like a madman, constantly screaming… shrieking, as it were, "You're killing Time! It doesn't take kindly to that! Stop killing it!"

I defended myself the best I could until a parade of Merriweathers and accompanying constabulary arrived. I only sustained a cut (done by the sharpened edges of his pocket watch) and a minor bruise on my head, where his small, yet effective, makeshift mace found purchase.

Theophilus resisted arrest. I have never quite seen anything like it. He fought the constabulary like a mad dog and managed to keep them at bay for quite some time with his wild, unpredictable movements. They found their strength in numbers to be their only chance and hence moved in, all at once, and subdued him with sheer brute force.

I am sending you a duplicate of the damage report, as well as the most peculiar list of items on his person, and a report of the various injuries and... modifications, he has made on himself. Allow me to explain here, to save you some of the shock you undoubtedly will experience: Theophilus, apparently, has done rather gruesome things to himself, things that extend well beyond the terms unsafe or unsanitary. He has, Lord have mercy on his soul, embedded gears and levers and rods and belts into his own body. I am sending you a duplicate of the doctor's report, and I do urge you to not expect anything short of horrible.

Among those items to survive the fire were various inventions of Theophilus, all in various states of completion, and a journal of impossibly complex mathematical calculations. In deciphering what his scribbling may mean, we have sought the help of our good friend Reverend Charles Dodgson (you remember him, don't you? He was the rather dreamy fellow, and a veritable genius; so unfortunate for him to suffer two fiery catastrophes at such short intervals.) However, there is one problem, he is not in his University estate and there isn't a soul who seems to know where he has gone. As of this morning, nobody seems to know where he might have gone to. We have managed get a hold of his immediate family via telegram, and they harbor the belief that he is undergoing "another depressive episode." You will recall that after his father had passed, Reverend Dodgson shut himself off in his house and refused to come out. Without a choice in the matter, I am sending you the journal in hopes that you might have a go at it.

Whatever the case may be, it is urgent now that our good friend Theophilus finds a safe place. I expect court proceedings to begin tomorrow at the latest, and I have no doubts as to what the verdict will be. Our good friend, the poor man, will require treatment. I am asking you to make the necessary arrangements to obtain him, if you cannot come and claim him yourself. I will ensure that your compensation will be quick and adequate.

Lucas, I'd rather see him where he could be cared for, by people he'd trust, than rotting in any old sanitarium.

I am anxiously waiting for your reply.

Yours truly,

-Isaac Octavius


	8. October 13, 1870 - Enclosed Documents

"_**Facts Concerning the Strange Case of Wonderland"**_

**The documents enclosed in Isaac Octavius' letter.**

**Document #1: Damage Report of Theophilus Carter's Shop and Residence (High Street, No. 48-49, Oxford) (duplicated, with permission, from the Fire Brigade Records.)**

October 10 – High Street No. 48-49 burned. House unsalvageable. Three deceased: Mary Ann Carter (wife, age 47), William Carter (son, age 15), Frederick Carter (son, age 10). Nothing of value or notice recovered. Despite the Fire Brigade's sincerest efforts, the house could not be saved. Curious that the house burned so utterly, without sparing a single object within it, metal or otherwise. Remains of what were presumed to be partially-completed inventions were found, all beyond recognition or resemblance to anything normal.

Addendum, October 12: It was determined that a foreign chemical mixture was used as opposed to regular gasoline to make the flames hotter. The condemned has no wisdom to offer in the issue. Case closed, file under "Arson."

**Document #2: The List of Items found Upon the Person of Theophilus Carter at the Time of His Arrest (duplicated, with permission, from the records of the Oxford Police.)**

A top hat that has a built-in clock.

Pocket watch (display broken, drenched in blood and what we have identified as bread crumbs and long-soured butter. The metal ground to sharpen the circumference.)

Torch (lit at the time of his arrest)

His clothing (tailcoat, shirt, trousers, black suspenders, pair of shoes, white gloves)

A personal journal.

His various personal modifications (see the Doctor's report for details) and the materials used therefore.

**Document #3: Doctor's Report Concerning Theophilus Carter's Injuries (duplicated, with permission, from the files presented to the courts.)**

Personal note: Never, in my twelve years of practice have I seen something of the sort. The list of injuries below were, unless otherwise stated, all self-inflicted and the materials used, unless otherwise stated, were properly sterilized and self-made. It is remarkable that he has managed to do all this and still survived, a fact that will remain an incredibly curious mystery.

-Removal of each fingertip of the left hand, accompanied by the attachment via embedded nails fixed on a gyroscopic gear. Metal fingertips which, according to the patient "gives him that 0.23 mm difference and helps him achieve symmetry."

-A gear-based lifting system that uses a central rod on right shoulder. The rod serves as a rotational axis and is embedded into his right shoulder, and we suspect it goes right into the bone. This central axis is connected, by a series of belts, to various other similar axes across his arm, all of them piercing his skin and, we suspect bone, through and through.

-A self-made heart tattoo on the right side of his chest, apparently seared in via what we think should be a self-made branding iron.

-Another self-made inscription, this time on his stomach. Carved into his skin and marked with small stilts of metal inserted into the incisions, perhaps to keep them visible: "God Save Our Queen."

-A curious contraption embedded into the left ankle, perhaps to compensate for the weakness of the leg, which itself would arise from the mechanism itself. A rod shot through the Achilles tendon grounds the mechanism in a claw-like protrusion also moving towards the foot. It also supports the upper leg.

**Document #4: The transcript of Theophilus Carter's interrogation by Constable Jonathan Erics (duplicated, with permission, from court files. Translated from short-hand.)**

_Constable Jonathan Erics (CJE henceforth):_ What is your name?

_Theophilus Carter (TC henceforth):_ Hatter, Mad.

_CJE:_ Could you repeat that?

_TC:_ Hatter, Mad.

_CJE:_ Fine. Mr. Hatter, what were you doing earlier tonight?

_TC:_ Your left ear is slightly larger than your right ear.

_CJE:_ That was not what I asked.

_TC:_ What time is it?

_CJE:_ Nearly six.

_TC:_ Let's make it quick, then. I have an appointment to keep.

_CJE:_ That is none of my concern. What were you doing earlier tonight?

_TC:_ I was actually attempting to synchronize the clocks in my shop, see if they could keep time like each other and as one.

_CJE:_ Why were you attempting such a thing?

_TC:_ Because perfection is the only standard I should ever sink to and they, my creations, had to be in perfect harmony.

_CJE:_ Why did you burn down your house?

_TC:_ The Queen commanded it so.

_CJE:_ The Queen..? What does...

_TC:_ The Queen of Our Hearts.

_CJE:_ Assuming that you are not referring to Her Majesty, who is this queen?

_TC:_ She is the Queen. That is all. What time is it?

_CJE:_ Three minutes to six. Why did the queen, then, ask...

_TC:_ She didn't ask! The Queen shan't ask for anything! Her word is absolute and law! She need not ask, she need merely to tell!

_CJE:_ I see.

_TC:_ You don't. What time is it?

_CJE:_ Two minutes to six. Why did she tell you to do that?

_TC:_ Because there is only one thing to do with the imperfections left of an unreal life, here in this dismal realm you call the world. Destroy them. What good were my inventions? My wife? Her left breast was larger than her right, her left foot was smaller… she lacked symmetry. My children, always years apart from one another, never in that perfect succession, but rather with intervals most disturbingly irregular. Nothing was as it should have been and it was beyond hope or redemption. What time is it?

_CJE:_ One minute to six, what is this…

_TC:_ Have you any butter?

_CJE:_ Butter?

_TC:_ Perhaps it was the blood in the butter. But my watch did not work! I told you to clean that sodding knife! Now look at it! (Note: TC produces a pocket watch, broken, and stained in blood and another substance, later identified to be stale butter) It will not work! Why won't it tick!?

_CJE:_ Calm yourself, mister Carter, what is…

_TC:_ What time is it!?

_CJE:_ It's six o'clock, why are you so interested in time?

_TC:_ Six o'clock? Then it is time for tea, my friend, and I am so very thirsty!

**Document #5: Newspaper Article, dated October 11, 1870. Third page.**

**CONSTABLE KILLED BY RAGING MADMAN**

Constable Jonathan Erics (Age 31) was killed earlier today during his interrogation of the recently-convicted arsonist and well-known inventor, Theophilus Carter.

According to witness testimonies, Mister Carter violently charged Constable Erics during the interrogation. Somehow overpowering the much heavier-built man, Mister Carter then bit into Constable Erics' throat, holding his victim down while doing so. Once an intervention was made, Mister Carter effectively tore Constable Erics' throat out. Constable Erics reportedly bled dry where he lay. According to the witnesses, his passing was quick.

No official statement has been issued but it is widely believed that Mister Carter screamed about the Queen during this grisly act. The Police refused to comment.


	9. November 15-17, 1870 - Harland

"_**Facts Concerning the Strange Case of Wonderland"**_

**Harland Edison's Personal Journal, November 15-17, 1870**

_November 15_

I have, as written in my previous entry, decided to take the assignment, no matter how peculiar or vague it might be. I simply handed the letter, with my response written on it, to the postman when he came by the next morning. The postman took the letter, and twirled it in his hand to look at what was written. Upon seeing the answer, he reached into his left pocket and removed an envelope and handed it to me. He left me with the impression that he had a similar letter in his right pocket with the exact opposite message with the one that was now in my possession.

I inspected the letter for any sort of marking. I recognized Miss' handwriting immediately, and the inscription itself was proof of my suspicion about the other, opposite letter: _In case You accept._

I retreated to my study in order to read, and to later duplicate what I now knew would be first in many anonymously-delivered correspondences with this mysterious Miss.

_Dear Harland,_

_If you are reading this, it means that you have decided to accept my assignment. This is well and good, and I do sincerely hope you will not fail to meet my expectations, which run parallel with your reputation as an excellent investigator. Without further ado, then, let us begin._

_I have to advise you to put your affairs in order and leave for Oxford at once. This might appear peculiar, for your employer to point you in a particular direction when you are the investigator, but you are, as of this moment, an extension of myself - capable of going places I will otherwise have no access to. The first stage of your investigations will be to serve as my agent in verifying some suspicions of mine. I am primarily suspicious of certain... things that center around the Christ Church and several members of the University of Oxford academia. It is my firm belief that they hold several secrets that will prove pivotal to your assignment._

_As to the answer of your now-forming and quite natural inquiry, my knowledge of the existence of such secrets provides me with little detail and no insight at all. Further, for reasons I shan't divulge and you will not ask, I have no access to the persons involved. That is where I hope you will help me._

_I will, however, have you know one thing: Charles Dodgson and Dean Liddell were in a bit of a conflict during the last few months of Dean Liddell's life. That does not, however, in any way incriminate Dodgson, I can tell you that. It is merely a suggestion, that perhaps their conflict may prove more insightful. After all, it is the beginning of a rift between Dodgson and the Liddell family that eventually resulted in a complete break._

_I hope that you will report to me all your findings, and want you to know that I, as always, am watching you with keen interest._

_-Miss_

I must confess that upon reading this letter I had become very concerned that this might have been an elaborate trap, or rather, the potential my employer herself (if it indeed was a she that I was employed under) demonstrated to become an obstacle in my investigations. Such would mean that the truth I would eventually find (for, without modesty I can say that I will discover the truth) may not necessarily be one she wants to find. But all of these notwithstanding, it served my purposes to have an actual, one might say, tangible, target to move towards.

I spent most of that day putting my affairs in order and arranging for a carriage to take me to Oxford. The carriage is right outside of my door as I write this, and I have managed to get my belongings loaded onto it. I will be needing certain specialist items, especially those meant to aid my dream-walking with me, however much they might be disapproved.

_November 16_

I am pushing the carriage as far as it can possibly go. While on the road, I consulted my copy of _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, _just to refresh my memory. I have never actually looked at the body of work quite as that of a possibly dangerous genius. However, coupled with the fate that befell the Liddells, it gained a grimmer meaning for me. These vivid imaginations of disturbingly chaotic nonsense that expose a world within which one cannot possibly hope to communicate logic or reason, or apply any rules to it (for the rules always change) make for a horrid suggestion at the very least.

However, one thing of note in the story itself: Alice seems to be a slave to the whims of the various curious characters she meets. Without any sort of true explanation, these strange, wondrous and terrifying creatures drag her from place to place, event to event, mostly against her will. The fact that most of them do not even seem to notice that the poor girl is lost and confused, I believe, is quite a nod to the death of reason.

Further, several lines of dialogue seems to foreshadow present events. Especially this little excerpt provides most insightful:

"_But I don't want to go among mad people." Alice remarked_

"_Oh, you can't help that." said the Cat, "We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."_

"_How do you know that I am mad?" said Alice_

"_You must be," said the Cat, "Or you wouldn't come here."_

In a brief flight of fancy, I wonder: could Mr. Dodgson have foreseen that Alice would end up in a sanitarium?

_November 17_

I arrived at Oxford at high noon of November 17. I instructed the driver to locate me a tavern, nothing too shabby and nothing too rich, just one that could get me as close to the University of Oxford, my first destination, as possible.

After paying the driver his due and bidding him farewell, I secured myself lodging. The tavern keeper, an older man with a bushy, white beard and a stomach to suggest that he quite enjoyed his food and drink, seemed awful polite and inquired as to why I was there. I was surprised by his curiosity, truth be told, but he told me it was his personal policy to ask – you never knew why someone was there, and if, for whichever reason, my being there would ever lead to a sticky end, he would have something to submit to the police.

I told him that I was here on an errand of the most somber sort, that I was an investigator sent to inquire about the tragic fire of the Liddell estate. He said nothing, but pursed his lips together as if to silence words threatening to rise, leaving me with the impression that he certainly knew a thing or two about the subject matter. After settling into my room and securing my most private belongings, I immediately went out.

Before anything else or any actual practice of investigation, I intended to talk to a mutual friend of the late Dean Liddell and the missing Reverend Dodgson: John Ruskin. He and Philip Pusey were among those testifying to the various oddities of Alice, as well as the local clock-shop owner, Theophilus Carter, who, strangely enough, had defended the girl. I recall his testimony.

He kept repeating, for reasons beyond my comprehension, that he was a poor man, all evidence to the contrary.


	10. November 18, 1870 - Harland

"_**Facts Concerning the Strange Case of Wonderland"**_

**Harland Edison's Personal Journal, November 18, 1870**

It has been a rather busy day, and I am tired. I just wish to record the hearsay I have been exposed to while it is still fresh in my memory – recollection is a tricky and often volatile thing, which does not always lend itself to accuracy, and as such, I have no desire to record wrongly what I have learned.

Earlier today, I went to the University where John Ruskin welcomed me to his study. I might add that his office represented the kind of a man he was: orderly, yet disorganized, and always more underneath the surface than it first appears. His office was overlooking the courtyard, of the enclosing hallways surrounding it, and the gothic arches and windows lined across them. He himself was a very calm and otherwise unassuming man, who, by this very appearance, projected a sense of the tense string – ready to snap at the slightest plucking.

He beckoned me to sit in one of the guest chairs in front of his study desk. I took my seat, and he sat down, his back straight, and crossed his arms.

"Mister Edison." He said, "I have no desire to waste your time, as such, I wish for you to state your inquiries, so that we may get on with it."

"You have been told of my arrival, then."

"Yes."

"Who?"

"I do not know her name. She uses the alias, Miss."

I nodded, "My employer."

"She wishes, I believe, to help you in your investigation of the most tragic passing of Henry. Had she not told me you would be looking for me, you would not be sitting there."

"I understand. That is so very helpful of her. Would you be so kind, then, as to tell me what the conflict between Reverend Dodgson and Dean Liddell was, prior to the Dean's death?"

"It was a simple matter, actually. You see, after completing his master's, Charles was supposed to receive holy orders. He, for whatever reason, did not want to. But he couldn't abstain from it, not really, but Henry, bless his soul, decided to accept his appeal. This created a bit of a hostile environment for both men."

"Hostile? Hostile, how?"

"Well, most of the academia did not take kindly to Henry bending the rules for Charles, so they employed their most fearsome weapon: their mouths. For all its grand displays of being beyond such matters, the academia is a gossip-prone battleground, and the term reputation is the equivalent of your entire existence. Hence, they sought to force Henry's hand to uphold the rules by spreading rumors."

"Do you know exactly who?"

"You know as well as I that such things cannot be trailed back to the source, as they are spread like a plague, from person to person. I can only give you the rumors themselves, not who they were spread by."

(Why not? He clearly knew. I could only guess that it was either somebody he did not wish to incriminate, or he himself was involved.)

"Fair enough."

"The most prominent one, which I would ask Reverend Pusey to support, was that there was a rather ill sort of affair between Charles and little Alice."

"And, was there?"

(I could see that he did not take very kindly to that question, but he sought to dispel my supposed suspicions with a fervor that left me with the impression that he, himself, could imagine being in Charles Dodgson's position in the event of such a rumor.)

"No, and there could not be. It's nonsense - vile, sordid nonsense every bit as ill as what it suggests. Now, the second rumor connected to that was that Charles was a common object of affection amongst all the Liddell sisters, but that was only because he had a very ill affair with dear Lorina, Henry's wife. Before you ask," he added with a dissatisfaction with the mere thought that I might, "No. That wasn't the case. What was the case, however, was that Charles was supposedly courting Lorina Charlotte, another Liddell sister. His acquaintance with the rest of the Liddells, especially Alice, was a way to pay courtship to dear Lorina."

(I couldn't hide my amazement at how intertwined their lives were. It would appear that their lives had intersected, but even all that still failed to explain why anyone would want to burn Henry Liddell's house down with his family still inside. Academic friction simply did not seem reason enough. Arson, as is most other kinds of murderous crimes, is always personal, with the perpetrator having some sort of a bone to pick with the victim. All this seemed nothing more than academic reputation warfare, the art of slinging mud, if you will.)

"That does not explain why Henry Liddell would have such… volatile enemies."

"No, but bear in mind that all of this was during his attempts to modernize and reform the old Christ Church, an academic revolution attempt, if you will. Not everybody supported his view. Edward Pusey, especially, took some issue with it, given that he had been part of the Oxford Movement, really… in either case, any attempt by Henry's opponents to weaken him, especially by taking away one of his dearest friends who himself was defying tradition, could harm his resolve. And harm it, they did."

"How so?"

"What I am about to tell you is very, very secret, Mister Edison, and I haven't any desire to see it on any official documentation, if I make myself abundantly clear."

"You do. Of course not."

(How quaint that a letter to Miss did not, in any sense of the word, constitute anything so grounded as 'official.')

"During the further months of '62, the plans of those ne'er-do-wells worked. I do not understand it myself, but Charles and Henry suddenly seemed to retain no desire to be in the same room. I confronted both of them about it, but Charles simply stammered a half-answer and Henry… he seemed more worried than anything else. I took it upon myself to inquire into the circumstances of this sudden rift. I will admit to you, Mister Edison, that I was left with the impression that the silence of everyone around this undisclosed event was of a most grave kind."

"How so?"

"Nobody told me anything. They simply had a falling out, that was the official story. But I know both men, and my knowledge of them tells me that it could not possibly be the case. A mere disagreement? Nonsense!"

"What about the last year of Dean Liddell's life?"

"Ah. Throughout '63, right until the fire that claimed dear Henry and his family, they remained separated. By then, having heard me mention it enough times, Philip expressed faith in the radical idea that..."

"Philip?"

"Philip Pusey, the prodigal son of Reverend Edward. Quite a sensible man, and with vision, much unlike his father…"

"What was his notion?"

"It was a rather fantastical notion, you see, that Charles knew more than he was letting on, and that he himself was the reason for the rift, not anything else. Philip argued to me that Charles, in his strange ways, had refused to take holy orders not because he did not feel ready or that he was so head-in-the-clouds that he couldn't be bothered, but because he was undertaking unsanctioned and unholy research."

"Unholy?"

"Alchemy, magick, forbidden texts translated by ruffians wandering taverns and other unseemly places."

(That seemed to be a rather radical notion indeed. My willingness to believe usually is both a liability and an invaluable asset in my investigations, but I seem to find the idea rather credible. His literary work isn't that of a sane man.)

"And, your thoughts, Sir Ruskin?"

"In my experience, excrescence, one way or the other, is generated and it is often found in people you would never suspect to harbor such functions. But the fact of the matter is, and this is the actual secret, I actually managed to speak with Alice during that time."

"What did she say?"

"Not much of consequence, as she was but a child. She only made an off-handed and ill-advised comment about Charles being not a nice man, but I chose to take that as a slip of manners, nothing more. One should not make personal remarks, as you know."

"And do you believe that Reverend Dodgson, in his not-nice manner of being, was the cause, in however way it was?"

"Absolutely not! Mister Edison, I will be frank with you. Whatever the reason for whichever madman to torch Henry's house and set everything ablaze is not to be found in magick or such esoteric practices. Neither is it in anything personal. If anything, it is my contention that the arson was committed by a madman, and Henry was simply a random victim. Since there was no culprit caught, as I am sure you are aware, there is nothing more to be learned! Charles himself, bless him, investigated the matter, and he did it while the ruins were still warm! What do you, after all these years, even hope to accomplish with your questioning?"

"Finding the truth, Sir Ruskin."

I took my leave, as he was clearly telling me that he had nothing more to tell me. Of course, I could interpret his silence as one with firm resolve to not tell me something I otherwise would need to know, which would mean that he did indeed know; or I could interpret it as a testament to how little he knew, which would mean that he did not know. I was not about to dwell on this matter any further, as John Ruskin was, clearly, a dead end.

I did, however, ask about Charles Dodgson before I left his office. He told me that after his father's death two years ago, Dodgson had left the University on an indefinite leave, and that he (Ruskin) had had no contact with him. Credible enough, yes, but part of my reason for being here is to inquire about his whereabouts, as per Miss' instructions. I intend to try the academic registry tomorrow, in hopes of getting some information about him, or, failing that, his family.

I dined in the evening at the tavern. When I fixed to retreat to my room, the keeper presented me with an envelope. My 50/0/0 for the week. I took it and retreated to my room to write to Miss the developments of the day, which I clearly would submit to the keeper.

_Addendum:_

It appears as though there were several circumstances surrounding both men that attracted quite a bit of negative attention from their environment – however, all of these suggest to me that whatever lay beneath the reason for their drifting apart, it is not to be found in broken hearts or sordid child-romances. All this also suggest to me that the presence of the reverend probably brought little joy and much darkness to the lives of the Liddell family. The exact nature of how that was so is at best elusive.

I am beginning to suspect that there is more at play than simple academic rivalry or sword-rattling, or esoteric inclinations. However, Philip Pusey's supposed "notion" (if indeed it came from Reverend Pusey and not Ruskin himself) has given me a notion in return.

Perhaps I shall try dream-walking as an investigative measure. To accomplish that, I will need the sanctuary of an opium den.


	11. November 19, 1870 - Bennett

"_**Facts Concerning the Strange Case of Wonderland"**_

**Doctor Aaron Augustus Bennett's Journal, November 19, 1870**

As of this entry, I am in the process of settling into my new workplace, the Ruthledge Asylum. I have actually arrived yesterday, but I hadn't the time to write - the mundane labyrinth of details kept me. Had it not been my need to record both my initial observations and the strange event that occurred, I would not have written for another day or two either, I am so very tired. But there is no rest for those that must keep watch and I, being the watchman, must remain ever-vigilant.

The word peculiar has a certain bearing, I think, on Ruthledge's and their now-doubled case of "Wonderland" (as it shall be called in the official documentation.) When observing an endless string of patients, one never gets the chance to view cases with identical causes – not two unfortunate is alike, nor in any way similar, but contrary to this self-proving rule, the case of Wonderland seems to have claimed the sanity of two different patients, both with their unique symptoms.

I am having difficulty with this notion. Despite Hieronymous' musings on the subject of a possible contagion where the illness was concerned, I find such flights of fancy dangerous in my profession. Madness, as curable as it is often not, is not a disease of the body and as such, does not share the contagious properties of certain other ailments. Of course, I shan't entertain the notion that Hieronymous' professional fatigue may have stemmed from his growing belief in the fiction of the insane.

Theophilus Carter, to this regard, is a conundrum. As a hat-maker, he was well-known. He was considered a bit odd, which, rumour has it, was why he had struck Sir John Tenniel's fancy. However, the difference between being slightly odd and being absolutely devoid of sanity is staggering. I have seen men claw at their flesh, going on about insects crawling out of their pores. I have seen unfortunates smash their heads against the walls of their cells, not stopping until their teeth had scattered at their feet, for no reason at all. But I have never seen a man with such disturbing fixations turn his obsessions on not only himself, but on his children.

The operations he has performed on himself are appalling, to say the least. His persisting insistence on clockwork precision, his constant gibbering about time, machinery, perfection and undecipherable things only serve to make me wary of him. He has been treated for most of his wounds, but he has expressed more than simple protests as to be stripped of what he calls his "leap toward perfection." I shudder to think what madness drives him to feel that mechanizing his body constitutes a movement towards perfection. One also wonders what kind of perfection he has in mind, but comprehending his exact thinking is not the task of a sane man. Likewise, the notebook of his offers no help. It is, as I expected, nothing but a collection of a madman's ravings. It offers neither assistance nor insight.

I have, of course, considered the possibility that what he is experiencing, or rather what his mind cannot help but experience, is the effects of mercury poisoning. As a hat maker he would have been exposed to the element quite frequently, and his work as an inventor would have exacerbated this.

The latter case, one might say the original case is even more perplexing. It is not so much that the girl herself was deemed insane, which, according to what I have seen tonight, she certainly is. It is the overwhelming presence of Lewis Carroll's work that intrigues me. Surely she wasn't _so_ mesmerized by these nonsensical notions that she began to think them real; it would be awfully simple and would mean that she is, in fact, sane. Childish, inappropriately so for her age, yes, but quite sane. The official documentation regarding the matter converged on what the evidence undoubtedly put to display – that she herself was the cause of the fire that consumed her family and left her an orphan. I have only one experience with such criminals, but often, the crime is a rather violent method to alleviate the symptoms of their mental ailments, not the cause.

Which is why I considered myself lucky merely an hour after I had had dinner – a meager meal, I might add.

I had been told both by Nurse Duckett and Hieronymous' casebook that Alice's lucid, waking periods were, as he put it, "cruelly brief" and that she could lapse into unconsciousness at any given moment ("as if it tires her so, just staying awake", my colleague wrote.) I consider myself lucky, then, that I managed to coincide with such a period. To her credit, Nurse Duckett came to me at once when she discovered Alice awake, barging into my chambers without knocking, I might add. I hurriedly picked up a few items we would require, namely spare sheets of paper, inkwell and pen and made haste after her. I let her be my guide, as I did not know the layout of Ruthledge's very well, having visited it only once before.

As we made our way through the lower level, the unfortunates' ward, Nurse Duckett and I were given pause by a door unrelated to our current pursuit. Huddled in front of the iron cell door, whispering into cupped hands, were a pair of boys, twins, if my eyes did not deceive me. Nurse Duckett later informed me that they were Daniel and Dean Ruthledge – the superintendent's nephews. They struck me as a pair of misbegotten children: unkempt, dirty, unbecoming of their profession, even if, as I was informed, it was latrine. Their presence alone, of course, speaks much of Lucas Ruthledge's attitude towards them, but the fact that they appeared to be, as ridiculous as that might sound, holding a conversation with a patient seemed alarming.

Nurse Duckett whispered to me that they were speaking to Theophilus Carter. She then proceeded to quite rudely leave me behind and announce her presence by noisily clearing her throat. The twins scattered, so much like insects when a lamp is lit. I then approached the door.

Theophilus Carter was, indeed, in his room, pacing the same circle with intent, strong steps, almost as if attempting to furrow the cold stone. He was muttering to himself. I admired the steady step of a man whom had done horrid things on his legs without mercy – he was full of furious, nigh vengeful grace.

He stopped abruptly when he noticed me. Without warning, he lunged towards the door and crashed against it. The clanging of metal echoed, yet the door yielded not an inch. He rose until we could see face to face.

When he spoke, his voice was bordering on frantic.

"The bars." He said, pointing at the five bars covering the small opening on his door, "The one in the middle is thicker. It's thicker than the rest – the one that is supposed to bring balance is throwing this entire system into disharmony! I can't stand it, doctor, I can't bear it! Get me out of here, or replace the door! Replace the bar! Barricade me in here, make the door go away! Make it go away!"

"I cannot promise you that, Theophilus."

What he said in return, I will not transcribe.

I left without further delay, only to have him throw sordid insults after me. Nurse Duckett seemed visibly shaken by this, despite, I would imagine, having heard much worse from much less civil patients. The way she was clutching at the spare pieces of paper in her hands, however, reminded me that her acquaintance with Hieronymous had began when she was a patient in Ruthledge's, enslaved by persistent fears of being killed by numerous, often unnamable aggressors. I had, of course, read her case and had found it then as I do at present very questionable that she had not only chosen to become a nurse in the same asylum that she had once been a patient in, but that she had been allowed to do so – with the encouragement and very colorful recommendation of Hiernymous and the signature of Lucas Ruthledge himself.

It must be understood: everything about my brief journey to Alice's room told me that whatever had grown beyond measures of control had managed to do so because the environment around it was adjusted to accommodate parts that have no business being in a sanitarium.

Alice's cell was at the very end of the dead-end hallway of the lower level, a single, cast iron door at the end of a bare hallway. I choose to interpret it as an indication that Hieronymous thought it best to expose her as little as he could to the rest of the admittedly dismal environment of a sanitarium. Then again, I harbor my doubts about the purity of his motivations.

Nurse Duckett unlocked the door and I took the opportunity to survey the room. The room itself was almost completely bare in terms of fixtures – a bed, a wooden bedside, a chair beside for the doctor, and nothing more. There was a small window by her bed, near the ceiling, from which the rainy November night could be observed.

Upon entering the room, I was fascinated by the wall décor. Drawings, what appeared to be poems or stories, or simply faded, yellow pieces of paper filled with colourful, nonsensical scribbling liked the wall adjacent to the door – there was nary any negative space of the wall. I intend to collect every single one of these pieces and examine them in turn.

I gestured at Nurse Duckett to have the sedation measures that she had indicated she always carried with her, ready. Alice was sitting atop the bed, legs crossed (though I shall not tax one as unfortunate as her with decorum, it was still, rather inappropriate.) She looked no different from most of the patients in any sanitarium – pale, thin, bruised and disenfranchised. There was a toy in her lap, a stuffed rabbit with a singular button eye.

As I got closer, she acknowledged my presence by glaring intently at me through a curtain of black hair. I nodded, in greeting, as subtly as I could manage – the unfortunate are often volatile, and unless they engage in conversation first, something as basic as human speech can have disastrous results.

Nurse Duckett fetched me the chair on the corner. I sat down. Alice was apparently curious, observing me, sizing me up, looking me up and down as if I were foreign, exotic. According to my watch, she silently glared for about twenty minutes before speaking. When she spoke, her voice carried that adolescent tune, between that of a child's and a woman's.

"You're not Hieronymous."

I was, I admit, surprised that she could refer to him in such a manner. Perhaps my colleague's practices where Ms. Liddell was concerned were, after all, more questionable than I first thought.

"No. I am not. My name is Aaron Augustus Bennett."

"Are you a doctor as well?"

"Yes. Yes, I am."

"What happened to my doctor?"

I haven't the slightest why she would be, for lack of a better word, possessive of her physician. What was Hieronymous doing?

"He's taking a leave of absence, he was feeling rather tired from the continuous work. He appointed me as his… (I did not want to say "replacement" in fears of aggravating her) substitute. I will be taking on his cases, including yours. I just wanted to meet you today, since-"

"You mock turtle."

I misheard what she said in all sorts of ways in the cell. Nurse Duckett corrected me after we were finished.

"Alice?"

"You aren't anything," she said, "You are just a poor imitation! You are the witness that comes after the disaster and claims to have seen it all!"

Such elaborate insults, too elaborate for a girl her age or in her condition.

Nurse Duckett moved behind me, but I gestured for her to be still. I wanted to see where her declarations would lead. Her voice, at this point, was steadily rising.

"You come here and you think you can replace Hieronymous! You can't! I bet you don't even know the Lobster Quadrille, just the boring waltz!"

I admit to have felt a shiver. I do, indeed, have a fondness for the Viennese waltz.

"It is not a question of which dance I prefer, Alice."

"Dance? You can't dance. You jerk, and twist, and break your bones, and all you have left in the end is a sorry state and half of a song."

I still do not know what she meant by this, but, knowing of her state, I suppose she could have meant anything. I decided then to try to let that comment pass.

"How do you feel today, Alice?"

She did not waste a single second.

"I feel terrible, mister, thank you very much for asking."

"And why do you feel terrible?"

She hung her head, as if ashamed.

"Alice..?"

"I have nowhere to go."

Nurse Duckett moved behind me, took a step forward and came to my side. I questioned the move, but didn't have time to do anything else as Alice continued.

"Here is dead. There is gone. The other never was! And my doctor, my doctor who knew, who had seen it all now thinks himself mad, and others sane! Nonsense! Card tricks, the lot of you! And why are you even here, good sir, can you not see a sinking ship while you drown!? Can't you!? Can't you!?"

"Alice, calm yourself!"

"I want my doctor!"

I am not a brawler, nor have I ever associated with the sort, but I am, by all means, somewhat above average-built, and my strength, while not remarkable, isn't any less than that of any other man. Thus, it is extremely disturbing that she, a thin, underfed unfortunate managed to poise up with the unmistakable, fierce grace of a feline and managed to knock me off my chair. It was as if she was made of metal, not flesh and blood, as she clawed at my face, her unkempt fingernails sharp as talons, shrieking incoherent gibberish while tearing at me – and all I could do was to raise my arms in attempt to shield myself. Nurse Duckett intervened and somehow managed to pry her off of me. While I struggled to get to my feet, she administered the laudanum, and I caught her whispering in her ear an apology. I would call her on this right then and there had I not been preoccupied with the bleeding gashes on my left cheek.

Nurse Duckett escorted me out of the cell, and when she locked it again, I could see that Alice was as she was before, silent.

This incident has strengthened my resolve that I should resort to hypnotherapy as a method of forcing my way through the walls of her insanity. I intend to discuss the matter with Lucas Ruthledge tomorrow, but I highly doubt that he will in any way object.

The only shortcoming appears to be that her waking states are entirely up to chance. I will have someone, preferably close to the superintendent, watch her in case she stirs. Somehow, I feel that I will not have to wait very long.


	12. November 19, 1870 - Mary

"_**Facts Concerning the Strange Case of Wonderland"**_

**Nurse Mary Duckett's Personal Journal, November 19, 1870**

Aaron Augustus Bennett, despite how highly my dear Hieronymous thought of him, is an arrogant sod. He expects to be treated like our Lord and Savior, and will accept nothing less. However, a messiah he is not, and his rather excessive self-assurance will, in my rather humble experience, prove to be his undoing. Mark my words. Why, just today, his forwardness, subtly brash presence aggravated her to the point where, after calling him a "mock turtle," assaulted him. I barely managed to get her off of him before she, quite strong for the scrawny, underfed unfortunate she always was, fought me tooth and nail. I had to nurse a nasty cut on my cheek while Doctor Bennett had to walk away with an almost bleeding eye.

He had no notion of why he had angered her so, and I thought it only fair to let his avarice blind him to what was painstakingly obvious – that despite my (and my good doctor's) warnings to proceed with caution, he had instead chosen to think his own skills as a therapist superior.

It is still, decorum, I think, to give him the benefit of the doubt, as he is a very skilled chemist and a highly respected (and recommended) doctor. I am painfully aware of the possibility that my feelings on the matter may be brought on by my inability to envision anyone but dear Hieronymous as my supervising doctor. I would like to believe they have less to do with the fact that, standing outside of Alice's door, Doctor Bennett cited my personal history as a cause for concern as to my abilities as a nurse.

The nerve! The audacity!

I have served my dear Hieronymous and Ruthledge's with equal measure and with all I possessed, and I shall continue to do so, as I utterly refuse to shirk from whatever Doctor Bennett wants to pose to me as a challenge.

Doctor Bennett seems intent on trying some new measures. Hypnotherapy, he calls it – the radical notion that some poor unfortunate might be helped by way of mesmerism. I remember dear Hieronymous giving it some thought, but to be frank, he thought his inexperience in the method would prove to be a liability. Doctor Bennett seems to harbor no such humble self-criticism, as he claims to be an excellent hypnotist as well. Whether or not that is true remains to be see, however, his lack of caution and over-eagerness to proceed with his ministrations disturbs me. The man clearly thinks this is a cut and dry case of an unfortunate, not something that had the potential of driving my dear Hieronymous insane.

One last thing of significance: I have cleared this ordeal, only to find that I had been sent a letter from Hieronymous. It arrived late this evening, but presently, I haven't the strength to open it. I shall retire of the day once I finish writing this entry.

What is most odd is that he has also sent his personal dream journal.

_Addendum (November 20, 1870):_

I visited Alice twice after that evening, both to perform my daily duties and to check her condition. Nothing has changed. She sleeps day and night still, and even when her eyes are open, she does not appear awake. I, in a moment of lax judgment, even asked her if she knew why Hieronymous was gone. She didn't say anything, and there was no indication that she heard me.

I believe she did. But my beliefs can be faulty.

I know with a preternatural awareness that my dear Hieronymous would say was simple concern manifesting as foreknowledge, that she is dreaming, although I haven't the slightest of what she dreams and, in all honesty, I have no wish to know.

The only sign of life in her room is that stuffed, one-eyed rabbit I brought her years ago. It changes positions throughout the day and is never where I left it when I return to the room. Yesterday, I found the rabbit on the floor, away from the bed, as if flung towards the door by her. I cannot keep watch of her day and night, and I can't always be by her side.

That will not stop others, however, from doing so.

Also, I keep finding Sir Ruthledge's nephews, Daniel and Dean, huddled in front of Theophilus Carter's door. My first discovery of their rather strange interest in this particular ward was with the enduring tenure of their intent scrutiny of Alice, shortly after she was admitted. Their focus seems to have shifted. Every time I turn that corner, unawares, I find them there, watching or whispering into cupped hands with Mister Carter. I had made a habit of announcing my presence with either loud steps or a feinted mishap, so as to maintain the illusion of their activities going undiscovered, and I believe I still retain the facade. I made note to the superintendent about this, but Sir Ruthledge seems adamant that their interest is innocent in its focus, and does not think it odd that they would suddenly lose interest in Alice. Whether or not that is so, remains to be seen, however, I will say this – Hieronymous harbored a notion that they might have been an exacerbating cause in Alice's troubles, a notion I am inclined to share. I could not maintain a constant presence around Alice, but I could certainly make sure they aren't doing her any harm.

I do not know what to make of their sudden interest in the mad hatter now, however, knowing what now know, I know that it cannot be good.


	13. November 20, 1870 - Harland

"_**Facts Concerning the Strange Case of Wonderland"**_

**Harland Edison's Personal Journal, November 20, 1870**

I've had a rather strange night.

I sometimes suspect that my talent for finding opium dens no matter where I am is a rather uncanny sort of ability, in that my preternatural awareness of these things suggest an intimate connection with the world that they belong to. I have always harbored the contention that everything has a world. I belong to one of following criminals and elusive souls, and I can't help but think that this sense of belonging affords me a talent for thinking like one, and as such, I can find an opium den quite easily. There are, of course, implicit and almost exclusive signs that I am able to read, which bring me, inexorably and sometimes I think, inevitably, to these places.

The first and most obvious sign is tavern quality. The nearer to an opium den you go, the worse the taverns become – the drinks become staler, the interior filthier and the customers and attendants more ruffian. Following bad taverns is not, however, the only sign. You encounter more beggars near opium dens, those who haven't managed to stray too far from their chapel of vice, trying desperately to squeeze out of the world some modest amounts of money to return to their worship – the sweetened scent of opiate compounds hangs about them like the cloud of misfortune that either brought them there, or they brought upon themselves by being there.

Why I can so easily find these places as if they are second nature to me, I shall never understand.

Nonetheless, it took me a while to locate one in Oxford. There apparently were the slums on the very fringes of the city, but even there, there wasn't one den to be found. Lousy taverns and workhouses aplenty, but no opium den, no beggars of the sort. There was, apparently, a very sordid sort of brewery nearby, which explained the drunkards I kept crossing paths with (all, in an eerie coincidence, singing _the Drunkard's Dream_) but my need kept driving me onwards. Finally, under a run-down slum building that appeared to be coated in the color gray by virtue of existing if by nothing else, I located what could be the only opium den in Oxford.

It was easy to miss, and the only thing that betrayed its existence, apart from the sweet scent mingling with the foul slum air, was the solitary, rather muscular man standing watch in front of the building. Upon approach, I noted that he resembled a weary sailor that had jumped ship in desperate need to find his roots – of course, in the process of which, trouble had found him. He had a rather intimidating, yet harmless scar running down the side of his head. It's shape indicated that it was done with a knife. When I stood within arm's reach, I could see other, smaller scars, and it was all I needed to see that I was facing a knife fighter, and, apparently, the gatekeeper of the den.

As per common courtesy, I tipped my hat. He grunted.

"You Edison?" he asked.

I admit, I was a bit taken aback. I wondered how many people had had to answer this question since I had arrived at Oxford.

"I might be."

"Are ya, or aren't ya?"

"Harland Edison, that's me."

"Got a letter, you have. Strange girl gave it to me. I'm supposed to give it to you."

He pulled out a badly-folded letter from his pocket and handed it to me. Lacking a letter opener, I had to use my fingers to try and rip the folder as gently as possible. I pulled out the letter itself and got close to the street light to read it.

I recognized Miss' handwriting immediately. Curious.

_To Whom It May Concern,_

_While I despise idle gossip as much as any civilized person should, I also do believe in finding out everything you can about someone in your employ. As such, I have done my research on the subject of yourself before ever writing the first letter you received. This letter was delivered three days ago, after your acceptance of my assignment, and is there to serve as a warning to you. You have located, as your habits have indicated that you would, the only opium den in Oxford, which, incidentally, I know will be raided the very night you should have received this letter, if all goes accordingly._

_If indeed you have arrived after the said raid, then this letter should be at the hands of a very confused Oxford constable, who must be wondering why I would send a letter without address, to the doorman of an opium den of all people. If, however, you have been lucky enough to have received it, I would advise you to tell the doorman whom should be holding this letter nothing, and to walk away to find another place to satiate your needs. I have also arranged for the doorman to have half a pint of opium and strict instructions as to give it, as is, only to you. The bag holding it has a wax seal that will be broken if he has taken the liberty, which I'd appreciate if you would tell me. He has already been paid at a generous sum of 8 pounds, but should he ask for more, you can use your connection to me._

_I suggest you make haste, for I, unable to contact you at a time that you deem to be 'present', cannot tell when the raiding party will arrive._

_Yours truly,_

_-Miss_

I stood, transfixed, with the letter in my hand and for a moment felt that the gatekeeper was watching me quite intently, doubtless, waiting for me to ask about the opium he had been holding. I decided to heed the warning concluding the letter and crudely stuffed it into my pocket.

"What'd it say?" the gatekeeper asked.

"You didn't see it?"

"Can't read. Never needed it."

The expression on my face must have looked so pedantic. He was illiterate. This meant that someone had to have told him to expect me, to give me the letter, and to hold onto the opium for specifically me. My first instinct was to ask him whom had told him, whom he had spoken to that had let him know he should expect me. I opened my mouth, even, but stopped just short of the words, as Miss had warned me not to attempt this sort of thing. While this knife fighter looked an unlikely fellow to report my curiosity to an emissary of Miss, her unseen presence alone made taking the risk a foolish thing to do.

"It says you have something for me."

"It does, does it?"

"Yes. It also says that unless you give it to me, there will be consequences."

He huffed and dug into his trousers' large pockets. He pulled out a bag. The wax seal, red, briefly gleamed under the lamp light. I reached out to acquire it and he, predictably, pulled the bag out of reach.

"Nothing's for free." He said. I couldn't fault him. Nothing was free.

"I know you have been paid eight pounds for it, and I know that your price has already been paid. The person who arranged for you to hold it would be displeased to hear you ask for more than she has generously given you."

"I didn't get this from-"

"I will give you four pounds." I said, "You might still reject that offer, but my employer will not be happy, and believe me when I tell you, that would not bode well."

He considered it, but he was a reasonably reasonable man, and our trade lasted not a minute. With the opium in my hands, I quickly made my way down the street and into a back alley. I found a decent spot from which I could survey the opium den. I pocketed the opium and prepared to pretend to appear as if I had simply been walking about. According to my watch, I waited twenty-seven minutes before the raid actually did take place. Before my very eyes, I watched the constables, six of them, subdue the knife fighter and the rest of them walk past their scuffle to pour inside. At an even pace, I made my way down the street, opposite from the den, and did not stop for anything until I had found my way back to cleaner, more respectable streets. When I was absolutely certain I had neither been followed nor noticed, I promptly returned to my room.

As such, tonight has been rather informative. I now know that what I had perceived an idle threat wasn't idle at all, far from it – it is my contention that this Miss wields more than just a considerable amount of power. The fact that she knew there would be raid precisely tonight (not to mention that I would, "if all goes accordingly" arrive at the den tonight as well) tells me that her reach extends to the constabulary. However, she can also reach so low, low enough that she can have someone that the knife fighter knew and had dealings with go and deliver the letter and the opium on her word (and perhaps a small sum) alone.

I am beginning to feel that the premise of this assignment is moving towards something rather uncomfortable, as the displayed, but not demonstrated, power of my employer makes me feel rather humbled, as if I have shrunk.


	14. November 20, 1870 - Mary

"_**Facts Concerning the Strange Case of Wonderland"**_

**Nurse Mary Duckett's Personal Journal, November 20, 1870**

Today, I opened Hieronymous' letter. I had thought it rather peculiar that he should send me his dream journal, and the feeling in the pit of my stomach urged me to ready myself for the incoming disaster whilst I opened it. It is with great sorrow that I will keep this letter here, in between the pages of my thoughts, because I believe my good doctor deserves as much. I will refrain from writing anything else, as I fear what might pour onto these pages.

I will, however say this: my good doctor's final words remind me of my ever-present fear that madness is always just a hair's breadth away from me. And madness has a name in Rutledge's, for those of us who know it: Alice.

**The Final Letter of Hieronymous Q. Wilson**

_Dear Mary,_

_I am so sorry that you had to hear this news from me, and in such a fashion. If for an instant I believed there were some other means by which I could let you know, I would use them. Alas, no such luck. You must understand, however, that I am no madman, nor am I of unsound judgment. They will say so in their more polite moments, but despite what has led me to write this letter, I implore you, do not believe their gossip._

_This is my goodbye, to you and to all things. My existence has become unbearable. Since I left Rutledge, the dreams, delusions and phantasmagorical shadow-things have not left. If anything, their visits became more pronounced, until they came into my house, and simply stayed._

_They are here now, watching me._

_I wish I could describe them to you. Such creatures! The smiling cat, the mangy rabbit, the opium fiend caterpillar... but I am not allowed to say more. I can't. They will not let me. It was through great sacrifice that I was able to procure their permission to even write this letter._

_What will transpire, dearest Mary, is what I know now to have been inevitable from the moment I was exposed to the notion of Wonderland. Truth be told, and they want me to tell you this especially: __you are all doomed.__ There is no escape once you have been exposed to the idea. The idea is the seed, and it grows (or rather, it __festers__) in mind until it's so big that it begins to consume everything else._

_For now and for myself, suffice to say the police will find me dead, and my house burned down. I will ensure that everything pertaining to Alice, save for the one item still in Rutledge's, will be destroyed in the fire. Afterwards, I will find a quiet spot, as remote as possible, wherein I will also surrender myself to the fire. __Nobody must know what happened to me._

_They must not know._

_I urge you to memorize or duplicate this letter and destroy the original. No-one but you should know the truth. The rest of the doomed souls in Rutledge are better off not knowing._

_As for my replacement, I pity him already. The poor fellow has no idea what he is meddling with. Neither did you, my dear Mary, but it can't be helped. Thus, consider this my parting gift: I am giving you this awareness, in hopes that it will help you where nothing else can._

_You are not safe. You never will be again._

_Know this, dear Mary, and act accordingly, because time is running out._

_Be well,_

_-Hieronymous Q. Wilson_

_P.S.: I am sending you my dream journal also, in hopes that it might help you in some way. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry._


	15. November 22, 1870 - Bennett

"_**Facts Concerning the Strange Case of Wonderland"**_

**Doctor Aaron Augustus Bennett's Journal, November 22, 1870**

Fortune favors the bold.

I had to wait only three days for Alice to experience another lucid period. Nurse Duckett came to fetch me whilst I was tending to one of my lesser patients, a fortunate by the name of Wilson Frederick – an interesting case of mild paranoia, related most certainly to his overbearing mother. He was the last one before I retired this evening. Under normal circumstances, the timing would put me in a bit of a predicament, however, anticipating this, I had already made preparations for when the opportunity knocked, and knock it did.

Upon Nurse Duckett's suggestion, however, I brought my pocket watch as opposed to the sterling silver medallion I have employed in my previous hypnotherapy studies. While I did intend to use an oral administration of a relaxing concoction with the medallion, I still questioned her about it. She claimed that regularly ticking mechanical devices such as watches and clocks had a rather, in her words, "mesmeric effect" on Alice.

I had nothing to lose by making this small concession.

We proceeded with haste to the lower level, whereupon we, once again, stumbled upon a conversation with Theophilus Carter and Lucas Rutledge's nephews. Their somewhat odd tendency to linger at the doorstep of the infamous "Mad Hatter" is alarming, but Lucas Rutledge seems to think their behavior innocent. While it is not up to me to pass judgment, I must note that often, such fixation is a sign of impeding madness, of obsession.

Upon seeing us, the boys scattered in a manner resembling naughty children. I couldn't help but stop by Theophilus' door, where I found the man displaying a hawkish grin, his eyes reduced almost to slits.

"Good evening, sir. Fetching, isn't it?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"She's awake now. She's awake. She's aware."

"That she is, yes."

"Oh, it's time for the rest of us to dream, then, dream of the marvelous clockwork. Dream of the perfect machine churning. Listen, listen…"

We did. There was no sound. Theophilus Carter asked:

"Can't you hear the gears turning?"

With that, he turned away and retreated further into his cell. I, perturbed, walked away. I do believe I heard a laughter, albeit a very faint one, as we made our way to the end of the hall. Nurse Duckett unlocked the door and we entered. I found Alice as I had found her before, atop the bed, sitting with her legs crossed. Upon hearing us, she tilted her head sideways and peered at us through her hair.

"Good evening, doctor. I do not mean to be rude, but may I eat soon? I am so very hungry."

I gestured at Nurse Duckett, and I believe she understood. She left, and locked the door behind her. I had to wait for her to return, for it would be impossible to both transcribe the conversation and focus on my patient. Alice did not react to my presence, in fact, she was perfectly still – statuesque, even. Unmoving, perhaps even immovable, she sat in her rather inappropriate pose, and the only evidence of life was her thin shoulders rising and falling, slightly, as she breathed. I took the time to make myself scarce and idle. I began to examine the drawings she had either had Nurse Duckett or Hieronymous hang on her wall. That they did was another in what was hastily becoming a long list of alarming and unbecoming behavior on their parts.

Nevertheless, the drawings were quite interesting. They had a macabre character to them, a sort of bloodied charm that even I found strangely alluring, which perhaps may be attributed to the fact that they were, after all, a child's illustrations. Some were full of malice: a wicked, crooked smile under sharply-angled, insane eyes – a bloodthirsty grin. Two white chess pieces, rooks, exquisitely drawn, snapping a red pawn in half; the red pawn's blood, apparently, bathing a white pawn waiting underneath. A crude, yet extensive scene spanning four sheets of paper: a solitary chess piece, a white knight, surrounded by an army of red chess pieces; sporting impossible and somewhat amusing weaponry, the knight's last stand was, despite its childish lines, incredibly vivid.

Her handiwork is quite impressive, but not as impressive as her coherence. Most of the unfortunates, though somewhat prone to such creative outbursts, almost always seem to produce incoherent, indecipherable gibberish that is not the work of a sane man to understand. But Alice, though leaning towards the fantastic in her subject matter, but her depictions are understandable. She uses her medium well.

Nurse Duckett unlocking the door brought me out of my thoughts. She brought a tray, holding a glass of water, bread, a bit of cheese and porridge and set it down on Alice's bed. The reaction was incredible: Alice straightened her back, and with a graceful motion, brushed the heavy strands of hair out of her face and behind her neck. Her movements and mannerism was now that of a proper young lady, whom had been brought up the right way.

Alice ate while Nurse Duckett and I watched. Her behavior continued through the meal, she polite and proper. Once she was done, Nurse Duckett took her glass of water, causing her to glare at her quizzically. I took charge as Nurse Duckett removed her tray.

"Alice, I would like to try something new today."

She gave me her full attention, I am sure of that.

"It is called hypnotherapy." I said.

"Will it... hurt?" she asked.

"Not in the slightest, no. It is not an invasive procedure."

"Will I have to drink that disagreeable medicine?"

"You will have to drink something, yes, but I have made it as agreeable as possible."

She sighed.

"Do I have a choice?" she asked.

"I am merely trying to help you."

Alice's shoulders slumped. She appeared to be defeated.

"You can't even help yourselves."

She held out her hand to receive her medicine. I produced the small bottle and gave it to her. She drank the dose without a word. We waited idly for the concoction to start to take effect, which announced itself with the glazing over of her eyes. Nurse Duckett stepped out of Alice's line of sight and waited by the door. I took out my watch, and its steady ticking filled the room. Alice, unexpectedly, began to sway slightly to the sound, in perfect rhythm. When I became convinced that she was mesmerized, I spoke.

"Alice, can you hear me?"

"Yes."

"Where are you?"

"Nowhere."

"You must be somewhere." I suggested, in attempt to lead her to a thought.

"I am stuck."

"Stuck where?"

"Between the nothing and the out there."

"Can you move? Can you go anywhere?"

"I can't. She's keeping me out."

"Who is she? Who's keeping you out?"

"She."

"Can you tell me her name?"

She hesitated, as if she was afraid to say 'her' name.

"The Queen of Hearts. She won't let me in."

"And where do you want to go into, Alice?"

"I…"

"Tell me."

She hesitated again. When she spoke, her voice was a quivering whisper.

"Wonderland."

"Why do you want to go there, Alice?"

"I can't go anywhere else."

"What about your home?"

"There's nobody there. My parents are… gone."

She shrunk. She drew her arms in, hunched and hung her head. The medicine could not be wearing off this soon. I checked the watch to verify this.

"What's wrong, Alice?"

"Something…"

I held my silence.

"Something's broken." She said.

"What's broken, Alice?"

Her head shot up and she looked at me dead in the eye. I could see that, miraculously, she was aware and awake – there was naught but full consciousness in her emerald green eyes. While I must perhaps make allowances for the rather scarce resources I was given in Rutledge's modest chemical lab, I cannot fault the mixture, as it had always worked flawlessly before.

When Alice spoke, her voice was loud and clear, and she said one last thing before collapsing, unconscious.

She said:

"I am."

Nurse Duckett ensured that she be made as comfortable as possible, just as before, and we took our leave. Theophilus Carter was laughing, excuse the phrase, like a madman.


	16. August 27, 1870 - Wilson

"_**Facts Concerning the Strange Case of Wonderland"**_

**Doctor Hieronymous Q. Wilson's Dream Journal, August 27, 1870.  
**

**Dream title: "Fungiferious Forest (Recurring Nightmare)"**

I have a recurring nightmare.

I am walking through a gigantic forest. Leaves tower over me and flowers, larger than cathedrals, loom overhead while I wade through the moss and the mud. The colors of the forest, sickly greens and yellows and dark, faded browns surround me and the air is thick with moisture.

I come across a patch of grey mushrooms roughly the same height as I am. They are standing in irregular rows and give me the impression of suits of armor displayed in museums; unmoving yet seemingly preternaturally omniscient and aware. I get close to one of them, filled with the irresistible urge to touch it. My fingers slide across it's sickening, oil-slick and softly-textured surface. I shudder, suddenly nauseated, and withdraw my hand.

I say to myself, out loud, "I like the taste of mushrooms."

And my thought is that I don't quite like those that bite back.

As I think this, the mushrooms come to life, as if stirred by my thoughts. They turn to me, twisting on their roots with a creaking sound, and look at me with piercing, fiery eyes. Slits, horizontal, appear on their heads and reveal gaping, ever-hungry maws lined with slithering tongues and razor-sharp teeth. I scream and turn around to run, but something very slick slithers around my ankle and pulls me. I fall and grasp at whatever is near, screaming and flailing about and as I am pulled towards the mushroom patch, I feel absolute terror overtake me.

Try as I might, I am helpless as they slowly drag me towards them, teeth gnashing and tongues salivating – thick blobs of saliva hit the ground and I am slowly positioned in the middle of the mushroom patch. They stand over me, scrutinizing me, watching me. I sense intent to play some sort of game; either that, or they just cannot decide what to do with me.

The last few seconds is one of heedless horror as they move in, mouths open and eager, and they devour me.


	17. November 22, 1870 - Mary

"_**Facts Concerning the Strange Case of Wonderland"**_

**Nurse Mary Duckett's Personal Journal, November 22, 1870**

Doctor Bennett failed to procure anything of significance from Alice in his first attempt at hypnotherapy. I should not think such things, it is not becoming of me, but I could not help but feel a measure of joy at the blow his pride has taken. Theophilus Carter, to add insult to injury, was laughing at his face while we made our way past his cell. While Doctor Bennett marched onwards with frustrated, harsh steps without a pause, something did give me pause: Theophilus Carter stopped laughing the moment I reached the stairs. I found it somewhat odd, but I proceeded to move, which was when Theophilus Carter, Lord have mercy, almost soft-spoken, said:

"Good evening, Mary."

I immediately took issue with this most personal form of address: I am no less deserving of the professional courtesy he begrudgingly pays Doctor Bennett!

"That is no way to address a lady." I informed him.

"It is the only way to address a friend."

"I am no friend of yours, Mister Carter."

"A friend is but another term for extended family, Mary, and there is no strangeness among kin. We are like ravens and writing desks, you and I."

This prompted me to step back and to his cell door. He was there, thin fingers snaked around the even bars, crooked nose scraping the middle one. He had the eyes of a madman, yet his intense focus had something so very… clear. Clear and aware.

"And why, pray tell, should we be kin, Mister Carter?"

"Were you not awake once?"

I felt my heart stop, if only for an instant. He smiled a hawkish smile.

"You aren't hidden from me, Mary. Not from us, no." he bowed in mock apology, "Excuse my crudeness, but two things perfectly alike do know each other. An apple sees a reflection in another apple, like looking into the looking glass…"

"You and I are nothing alike!"

"On the contrary, see, you aren't like me, as I am like you, because I, too, am the raven on the writing desk."

"That old riddle again…"

"It is not a riddle."

"I thought that was what it was."

"You thought that was what it was? You didn't know. Better to know what you think so that you may think what you know, dear Mary, as it might help you in the future."

"You're mad."

"Ah, well, now, if you meant what you said, that is to say you said what you meant, then you know what I think, but I am not thinking what I know: I'm thinking, currently, what you know. And what you know, dear Mary, is no secret."

I have to admit that I was, indeed, confused. Then again, I reminded myself that I was holding a conversation with a madman.

"Then tell me, Mister Carter, what I know."

"We're all mad here."

I was unimpressed.

"That, I do know."

"And yet you wander about, head in the clouds, as if you do not know that you have a place here, among us. Do you ever think for a single instant, Mary, that you've ever left?"

I backed away from his cell. In retrospect, I admit to being caught off-guard. Dear Hieronymous' passing, Doctor Bennett's overbearing presence and the revelations in my good doctor's dream journal have been, admittedly, wearing me down. But I cannot deny, as dear Hieronymous wouldn't have it, that I might also have been offended so because I simply was, indeed, thinking of what he had just said. I was gathering my composure when Theophilus Carter, as if sensing this, spoke again.

"Did Alice enjoy her ride on the merry-go-round tonight?"

I felt as if I had been doused with freezing cold water, or caught unawares in a pouring rain that had no telltale signs prior.

"I will not discuss her." I said.

He smiled.

"Very well. Then I bid you good night, dear Mary – do come visit me sometime, and, when you do, please bring me my tea for I miss it so…"

I left immediately and stopped for nothing until I reached my chambers. Though it is unbecoming of me, as I write this, I know that I should be out there, doing my rounds in the unfortunates ward, but, as the Lord is my witness, no force can move me from the confines of this room tonight.

Is it possible, that Dean and Daniel Rutledge were eavesdropping on Doctor Bennett and I? While this seems the most likely possibility, one that Doctor Bennett would no doubt take to be the word of God, what I know about this strange case of Wonderland suggests something far more intricate. A possibility that I must also consider, however, is that Doctor Bennett's new and untested method may have consequences beyond his understanding, which, of course, would not surprise me. Both, however, make it seem as if Theophilus Carter holds the key to understanding all this.

I do not believe Doctor Bennett is on the right path, but I doubt that I may be able to steer him in a better direction.


	18. November 22, 1870 - Harland

"_**Facts Concerning the Strange Case of Wonderland"**_

**Harland Edison's Personal Journal, November 22, 1870**

My handwriting must be excused for this entry, for I have barely just woken up from my eerily successful dream walking attempt. Dreams are at best elusive and they fade over time, hence I wish to record the incredible and horrible things I have seen without delay.

While I have dream walked before, I have never experienced something quite so vivid.

Having retreated to my room and instructed the tavern keeper that I was not to be disturbed even if the Queen herself was at my doorstep, I prepared my usual concoction for the process ahead (see the addendum below for details.) I made myself as comfortable as possible, and I drank the mixture. I smoked a modest amount of opium to facilitate the process, and when I felt the first bouts of drowsiness coming on, I laid down on my bed and closed my eyes.

When I opened them again, I was in the strangest place.

I can only describe it as a world devoid of colour itself, except for two distinctive ones: pale gray and black. Whereas even these colors have their shades and variations, the colours of this world did not. This gave my surroundings an eerie air, almost like that of a museum artifact – perfectly polished and distant. My first instinct was to look at my hand, but my hand still carried the vibrancy that colours the waking world. My clothes proved inconclusive in this matter, since they were black, but my shirt was white, and stood in contrast with the pale gray. I sat up to survey where I was. It had the dimensions of my room in the tavern, and a brief amount of pacing demonstrated that the room was, in fact, exactly the same size. I glanced at the fixtures in the room. The gas lamp by the bedside was pale gray in its frame, and its interior was black; however, the features of the object were much more sharply angled. Out of curiosity, I picked it up. It had the texture of cold, rough stone.

I ventured out of my room and downstairs, for I did not intend to waste my time gazing, dumbstruck, at the distorted features of the room itself. When I reached the tavern floor, I experienced a second shock. Everything was as it was in the waking world, carrying again that same two-colored, rough-stone appearance. What made it even more unreal than it was before was that it was occupied not by people, but what I could only describe as chess pieces. Pale gray chess pieces the size of a man, who had arms, eyes and mouths, whom talked in the manner of men in a language I could not understand.

The customers were pawns. The tavernkeeper was a rook. I clocked a burly castle by the door, in place of the doorman. Upon my arrival, the idle noise of conversation quieted almost instantly and they all glared at me. I became acutely aware that I, from what I could tell, was a vibrant, colourful, flesh and blood man in a land of stone chess pieces. I didn't hesitate to take my leave.

Streets that were changed in that same manner I was quickly becoming accustomed to greeted me. If my memory served, the layout of the streets were roughly the same as that of the waking Oxford, as I recognized the surrounding buildings around the tavern. However, as opposed to the sharply-angled, yet otherwise straight planes of objects, the buildings were crooked, bent at impossible angles, with walls bending and breaking at irregular intervals.

Under my feet, the cobblestones invariably carried a checkerboard design, much like a chessboard.

Reminding myself that my intention was to further my assignment, I went on my way. My primary thought, that the streets were aligned roughly in the same way proved correct as I successfully navigated them towards where the Oxford University would be. On my way, I noticed, however, that my earlier observation that the chess pieces were the size of a man wasn't inaccurate, just incomplete. The pawns were the same height one usually observes in young men, and the rooks, adults. Castles were, thus far, the tallest ones, tall and bulky with what I can only describe as stone muscle. Invariably, however, their movements lacked the dissonant, somewhat mechanical motions of human step: each piece glided in a perfectly straight path from square to square. I did not see any piece move in the way that a chess piece was allowed to.

As I passed by them, the pieces turned and cast glances at my person, as if curious. One rook, arms holding a black, stone basket, said something in the limey gibberish that was their tongue.

At the edge of my consciousness, I could feel the dream clash with my actual surroundings. It was an eerie sensation: I felt as if my body was, as it rightfully was indeed, far and wee, asleep somewhere that I knew and could envision, but could not reach, and yet, I could feel the position my body was in, I could feel the rough cloth of the worn bed sheets. Yet, it was too soon, by my count, for the mixture to be wearing off.

Erring on the side of caution, I hurried my steps. I attempted, cautiously, to sprint and when I miraculously could, I kept an even pace, ever watchful for the first sign of my efforts for haste growing futile.

The University of Oxford was, presumably, where it still was. However, I stood in awe before something entirely different. Before me was a stone structure, constructed of the same material as the world of chess pieces. It seemed to take sharp turns left and right after the archway that served as its entrance, and from where I was standing, I could see that these corridors turned, once more, and ran parallel to one another. I could see a bell tower, a perfect square column, rising in the background. There were two flags atop the entrance, on both sides of the archway, and they displayed a rather militaristic rendition of the white knight piece against a pitch-black background.

Before I could move towards the structure, a crude carriage, grinding and thudding, arrived at the archway. I waited patiently. For the first time in this dream, I saw two white knights (again, smaller than the castles.) One of them, carrying a spear and shield, dismounted first. Before any others might also follow in his steps, they threw another piece, hands shackled behind its back, onto the ground.

The captive rook was the colour of blood red.

Two more knights dismounted, and they lifted the struggling rook to… well, they lifted him up. They promptly carried the gibbering captive through the archway and into the structure, which I believe was a military barracks of some sort. This struck me as odd, as while the rest of this place seemed to correspond almost perfectly to Oxford, this marked a rather significant difference.

The red rook intrigued me more than this divergence, thus I sprinted across the open space towards the archway. Odd, I thought, that the barracks was unguarded like this, almost abandoned, as if no white chess pieces could bear ill will towards it.

Curiouser and curiouser, I went.

Through the archway, I quickly made my way deeper into the barracks, navigating the corridors with instinct alone. I had no bearings in this place, thus, I allowed chance to dictate my path. I was surrounded by the depressing, pale gray walls. The tiles clicking under my boots carried on the checkerboard pattern. I seldom saw any other guards or soldiers, and when I did, I managed to hide in a conveniently deep doorway or a corridor before they could spot me.

The edges of the dream started to fray then. My vision was growing somewhat blurry, the passage of time inconsistent – in the time it took me to move my fingers, I was aware of regular patrols circling around rather long, looping hallways twice over. I touched the wall. The rough, rugged stone underneath my palm felt distant, softer. I didn't have much time left.

I broke into a run, as fast as I could before the fraying dream took that ability away from me, and cleared the labyrinthine hallways without any clear indication as to where I was going, but, strange enough, in the creeping delirium of the fraying, I could conceive that I knew where I would lead myself to.

I managed to find my way to a hall. Stretching on for a distance that I couldn't actually discern, as it looked both right beside me and worlds away, it ended in ornate double doors. The doors, obsidian black, carried the same white knight insignia I had seen on the flags hanging from the archway.

Unfortunately, two burly castles carrying shields and battleaxes were waiting on either side of the double doors. I felt for my Beaumont-Adams, but as I had forgotten to have it on my person at the time of the ingestion, it was not there. The castles stirred to life, with a sound that resembled smaller pieces of stone detaching themselves from the larger body, and began to move, quite gracefully, towards me.

The dream was fraying with increasing speed. My first instinct was to run, but I found that I could not. The approaching chess pieces were causing an increasingly crippling sense of terror within me, their proximity, not their combat capabilities, determining the degree thereof.

The mighty double doors opened then, slowly, and that gave the castles pause. I was helpless to flee anywhere at an acceptable pace, and the dream was continuing to fray, thus, I stood my ground.

Out came a single, mighty White Knight. This particular piece distinguished itself not only by its sheer size, as it was taller than the castles themselves, but by its movements, which resembled, despite the piece lacking feet, walking as I understood the term. The White Knight was wearing an ornate, silver armor that contrasted greatly with the pale gray environment. It was bearing a sword, sheathed, and was flanked on both sides, approximately two steps behind, by rooks. His retinue.

Upon spotting him, the castles straightened themselves and saluted him. However, inevitably, the White Knight's eyes found me, upon which, he moved with incredible speed. I have never seen anything like his dash across the hallway towards me, in a dream, during a dream walk, or in the waking world. He was by the doors one instant, and not a breath later, his hand, a stone fist, had grabbed hold of me by my clothes.

"What is the meaning of this!?" the White Knight bellowed, "How did you come here!?"

The dream had almost frayed. I could feel the waking world returning in earnest. The White Knight, close as a whisper, might have been in Oceania, and I would not have noticed the difference.

The White Knight shouted again, his voice strong.

"Who are you?"

The dream ended then, and I woke up to the dull confines of my tavern room, feeling as if I had never been more tired in my life, despite having slept.

The experience has given me an idea, however, that I had scarcely entertained prior, and although I still believe it may just prove to be a futile effort, I think I have to exhaust the option nonetheless.

_Addendum:_

A glass of good absinthe, mixed with two good drops of laudanum provides the primary mixture. Primary to this, it is recommended that high-quality opium, such as the contents of the bag I received from Miss, be prepared for smoking after the ingestion of the mixture. Some find this an excessive measure, but I believe that the veils of reality are many, and in order to venture beyond it, one must be as removed as possible without endangering oneself.


	19. November 23, 1870 - Bennett

"_**Facts Concerning the Strange Case of Wonderland"**_

**Doctor Aaron Augustus Bennett's Journal, November 23, 1870**

I have had a rather strange dream last night that I deem worthy of recording. It is not befitting of a doctor to record his dreams in the manner that he makes some of his patients do, but the dream itself has enough merit.

In my dream I am walking in a dismal, dark place that I somehow have the impression is a fortress of sorts. That particular description seems fitting, however, as high castle walls, in the medieval style, loom in the distance. There is a rumbling in the background, like the howling of wind, only stronger, almost more intent.

I take a step forward, and the tiles underneath me tremble and move away from one another, creating an opening where I normally would have put my foot to. I recoil with, and I am not ashamed to say, terror, as I can see that there is nothing but a nauseating void underneath the tiles. Minding my step, I slow my pace and move carefully. I avoid two more such traps, one involving the tiles surrounding a narrow path two tiles wide detaching completely and leaving only a narrow bridge, and one where the tiles shift and form a mad staircase, with the steps too far apart to simply ascend.

After much toiling, I manage to reach a floor that I, Lord knows how, simply know that is more stable. Filled with confidence, I continue down maze-like hallways, that have not walls, but doors lined up against one another instead. The doors are of varying shapes, sizes and materials, some small enough to allow passage to none but a small child, a few big enough to accommodate African elephants. Most of the doors are closed, some hang open, and some creak as they open and close.

A disembodied voice, sinister and hissing, interrupts my otherwise peculiarly casual stroll.

"The Fortress of Doors holds such secrets… wouldn't you like to know?"

I try to locate the owner of the voice to no avail.

The Fortress of Doors. The notion seems familiar. I believe I have seen it in one of Alice's case logs, one of her many nonsensical notions that seem to have preoccupied my colleague.

As I continue my stroll, I take a right turn, and almost immediately, one particular door draws my interest. As I approach it, I become aware of what a door represents: a threshold, from one side of a thing to another. This transition, while often neutral, somehow strikes me as extremely crucial in that moment. The door is simple, birch, straight frame showing its age with the paint on it no longer carrying any discernible color, and the cracks on its surface. On the door, a once-silver plate, now coated in rust announces who it belongs to.

This is the most perplexing part: perhaps due to not being able to access logic and reason in a sleep state, one cannot read in dreams. But the plate, I am able to read as clearly as it were right before me in the waking world.

The plate reads: _Aaron Augustus Bennett._

The dream ends.

**Doctor Hieronymous Q. Wilson's Dream Journal, September 4, 1870. Dream title: "The Fortress of Doors (The First Dream, Revisited)"**

I dreamed of Wonderland once again. The dream I had, curiously, was the first dream I've ever had of the sort. Thus far, my dreams of Wonderland have been either seen either only once or, like the Fungiferious Forest, recurred at irregular intervals. This is the first time I have seen a dream I have seen only once before.

There is, however, an alarming change in the dream itself.

In the dream, I am, again wandering the endless corridors of an immense, labyrinthine castle. The hallways are perilous: the tiles under my feet constantly shift and rearrange themselves in new pathways, some making an absent-minded step a fall. As above, so below, is the ever-shifting sky painted with sickly greens and purples, drawn across the void in bold, dancing lines, and I know that to fall (or to fly too far, for that matter) is to be lost, and the fear in my heart tells me that it's forever.

There is a sound in the air, a faint echo. It's a scream, an ululating scream of haunting rage.

"For the Snark becomes a Boojum." I say, and I do believe it holds true for me.

The walls are lined with different sorts of doors, closed, each one unique, each one different in size, shape and material. Some doors have numbers on them. Some have letters. Some have entire poems, and some have nothing. Rather, it would be truer if I said that was how it used to be, in the first dream.

Because this time, the doors are wide open.

Beyond the frame of each one, I can see a swirling mass of color. Overhead, the scream rumbles.

My curiosity, overwhelming, drives me towards one of the doors. It does not seem like a fairly important door, in fact, with its worn rosewood frame and unremarkable fixtures, it is perhaps the dullest door I could choose.

On the right side of the door frame is a plate. I do not need to read it: one cannot read in dreams, yet that is not why I feel no need to. The plate has my home address engraved onto it in faded, gold letters. Underneath it, is my name.

A voice that I can only describe as nasal and somewhat sharp, whispers in my ear.

"The Fortress of Doors holds such secrets… won't you come in, now, doctor?"

I woke up, covered with cold sweat. The first thing I noticed upon awakening was the ticking of the clock in my room. I have half a mind to smash the damn thing. I can't stand the racket. I'm killing time, this I know, and I don't think Time is taking kindly to it.


	20. November 24, 1870 - Harland

"_**Facts Concerning the Strange Case of Wonderland"**_

**Harland Edison's Personal Journal, November 24, 1870**

I have a natural aversion to constabulary: it is not only that my work requires me to work for, but by and large outside of the law, but it is also that it often involves undertakings not just illegal, but also, according to some, sacrilegious. The Lord, however, is forgiving and I do believe He shall forgive me my trespasses, for they were all in the cause of doing my work.

The law is less forgiving of trespassers, however, and right they should be, as order can only be preserved if the law is made to be obeyed. As such, I found it difficult to go to the Oxford Police Station, as I probably should have done in the first place. However, I always find it best to avoid consulting with the law until it becomes an absolutely viable option. In my current case, however, I do believe it to be somewhat acceptable, thus, after as good a breakfast as my tavern could offer me, I quickly made my way to the Oxford Police Station.

I must mention that I, despite my considerable ability to hide it, am not entirely immune to the strange feeling of creeping guilt when one, even if innocent, experiences around constables. I have, however, the disadvantage of being guilty of several crimes, for which there are deservedly severe punishments.

Nevertheless, I went inside, and was immediately surrounded by a sea of uniforms, assured steps and gleaming badges. From experience, I knew that the best way to quickly reach what I wanted was to find the constable responsible for the storage of evidence and to convince him to allow me to have a gander. It only took a very polite question to an unassuming constable to point me in the right direction. I proceeded to the back rooms of the station, feeling, involuntarily that the halls were growing narrower. I emerged from a hallway to the desk of a mustachioed constable absent-mindedly scribbling a caricature on a spare sheet of paper. I cleared my throat to announce my presence.

"Yes?" he asked, without taking his eyes off his drawing.

"Good morning, sir. My name is Harland Edison, and I am-"

"The sleuth." He said, and placed his quill pen down, "I suppose you will want the records for the Liddell Estate fire, yes?"

I admit, I was surprised. While my investigations had forced me to be somewhat visible, I did not expect to be expected.

"Yes, if you please."

"Follow me."

He took me to a room further down the hallway, that itself opened to a narrow passage that divided itself into separate rooms, each one carrying an inscription indicating what the records therein pertained to. We entered the leftmost door, "Arson." Inside was a labyrinth of cabinets and wooden shelves filled to the brim with documents. The smell of worn paper hung heavily in the air.

He stopped abruptly and tapped on a rather slim folder.

"This is what you're looking for." He said, "You are not to copy anything written in these folders, and you are not to take anything out of this room."

"May I take notes, then?"

He raised an eyebrow.

"My employer wishes to know certain details." I said, "I believe I can satisfy her curiosity with a few."

He scoffed.

"Very well. But I will see what you choose to write."

"Fair enough."

He stood aside left me to it. Of course, he needn't worry. I had neither the means nor the intent to copy the report, or to smuggle it out of there, thus, I did what I told him I would do: contended myself with the details that I will add to the bottom of this entry. The constable with me watched me somewhat absently, but he did comment that Erics, a fellow constable, did not deserve to fall victim to the madness present in the report that I was reading. I was inclined to agree, however I was not certain that it was simple madness that had driven Theophilus Carter to gnaw out the throat of constable Erics.

When I finished, I presented him with what I had written. He read it quite quickly, and found it agreeable. I bid him farewell and took my leave, anxious, if I am to be honest, to leave the presence of the constabulary. Upon exiting the police station, I found that I hadn't spent an hour inside, contrary to my perceptions. I decided to survey the actual scene of the crime, the heart of my investigation to fill the available time.

It didn't take long to find my way to what remained of the Liddell Estate. I knew the address, of course. Further, Oxford wasn't lacking in the amount of people who would gleefully point one in the right direction, while sharing their own ideas regarding who the arsonist might be.

But while I knew that the fire had been every bit as horrible as that of Theophilus Carter's house, I did not expect such a sight. The Liddell Estate hadn't burned, no – it had been consumed. What stood before was a ruin, no two ways about it. The destruction had been, for lack of a better expression, complete.

I surveyed the ruins, and found that parts of the house still stood, defiant. In fact, the external structure seemed to defy the tragedy that befell it. I circled around the house, in hopes of seeing inside, and I wasn't disappointed. Parts of the upper floor, along with the stairway leading there, were intact. I do not believe it is in any way safe for one to ascend there and attempt to roam it, but it did not look like it would fall otherwise.

The most remarkable thing about this scenery was that it appeared to be some kind of miracle that I was looking at anything but a pile of ashes. The bare remains of walls, the stairway and the upper floor were all that remained: there was not a single piece of furniture, not a charred toy, not a family heirloom made of materials that would normally survive a fire in sight. I could not assume that they were extracted from the house after the fire, but the reports indicated that not only had this not been possible, but that there was, indeed, nothing left unconsumed but what I was standing in front of.

Curiouser and curiouser, indeed.

I returned to the tavern but before I could go in, I was suddenly filled with the urge to retrace my steps, as I had in the dream. I tried to remember the exact path I took, steering myself by the height and sight of the buildings around me, approximating my pathway. Much to my surprise and, I freely admit, horror, I found out that my guess in the dream was correct beyond my wildest guesses.

The White Knight's barracks in the dream did, indeed, stand in the exact spot as the University of Oxford in the waking world.

This parallel was disconcerting, to say the least, however, it wasn't at all unexpected. My experiences and the research I have undertaken over the years has instilled in me a firm conviction that often, realms tend to overlap. I had to wonder, however, which realm, exactly, I had stumbled into. I have studied the text of Lewis Carrol's work extensively, and I do not recall a single reference to chess. While there the possibility that the name "Wonderland" can be a placeholder for any realm one might accidentally (or, in my case, purposefully) enter, this would mean that dream walking may have taken me further away from the object of my investigation than further towards its end goal.

With those thoughts in mind, I departed. I returned to the tavern to find my weekly payment waiting for me in my room, along with a short letter from Miss (the latter handed to me by the tavern keeper.)

_Dear Harland,_

_I am pleased to hear that your investigations, though made frustrating by men as crude as John Ruskin, have been going rather well. If all has went accordingly, then you must be not only in possession of the opium I have left for you, but you have made haste and used it in ways that I know you are able. This, I also find agreeable: I have employed you for your penchant for the, shall we say, unconventional, as you might just be discovering how much your assignment truly is._

_Whilst this is merely a friendly suggestion, for I do not doubt that your inquiries will steer you in this particular direction due to an inevitable impasse, I might also suggest you try to locate Charles Dodgson – he has, apparently, disappeared and hasn't been seen, yet, as a former resident of Oxford, he must have some acquaintances who might have an inkling as to where he is._

_I am, as always, watching you with keen interest._

_-Miss_

I have no doubt.

_Addendum – Findings:_

The fire started in Alice's room. One of the very few items that had actually survived the fire was a lantern, and it had been found broken on the floor of what used to be her room. The severity of the fire was unmatched, nothing like it had been seen before, but it had been observed once after: a note attached to the initial report noted that the fire that had claimed Theophilus Carter's home recently had fallen victim to almost exactly the same thing. The report said "a chemical of indeterminate nature" and quite naturally chose to question how Alice could have gotten a hold of such a thing, and with what intent.

Rhoda Caroline Anne (daughter, age 4), Edith Mary (daughter, age 9), James Arthur Charles (son, age 13), Edward Harry (son, age 16) and Lorina Charlotte (daughter, age 14) all perished. Henry Liddell's wife, Lorina Reeve, was resting: she was a few days shy of nine months pregnant. They were expecting any day now.

Alice, the sole survivor, was barely coherent. The court files are a different matter entirely and definitely not within my reach, however, the submitted copy revealed that she was charged with arson and murder, including that of her unborn sibling, and was brought to trial. However, during the circus that was this proceeding, she kept calling witnesses that were not present – Bill McGill being one of them. Ultimately, what persuaded the court that the accused was not of sound mind was the fact that Theophilus Carter had been summoned in response to Alice demanding that the Mad Hatter testify as well.

He, perhaps well-intentioned, kept repeating to the judge that he was a poor man.

What I have read today has given me a rather dangerous idea: perhaps dream-walking, having yielded interesting results before, will once again help me. I will need to, however, be inside the Liddell Estate, or what is left of it. This creates a tremendous risk, one of being discovered: a man chasing the dragon in the ruins of a home that claimed the lives of many is not a pretty or an easily explained sight.

Dreams are fleeting, and I will need to record them as soon as possible. I may have to take this risk. Before that, however, I must write my report to Miss and I do hope she will, indeed, be satisfied.


	21. November 24, 1870 - Mary

"_**Facts Concerning the Strange Case of Wonderland"**_

**Nurse Mary Duckett's Personal Journal, November 24, 1870**

This evening, at the end of my rounds, as was required of me, I went to Alice's room. I opened the door to find the room very close to how Doctor Bennett and I had left it, with two blatant differences catching the eye. The first was the stuffed rabbit toy that Alice had had been, once again, thrown from her bed, but this time, it was right by the door. The second difference was that the visitor's chair that Doctor Bennett had used during his failed hypnotherapy attempt had been moved. However, my first reaction wasn't to be surprised at the relocation of the chair, but rather that something seemed off about it – an unseen, unknowable air of being slightly, and I cannot describe it in any other way, wrong, somehow.

As I went to correct the chair, however, Alice's voice startled me.

"Mary?"

Her voice was a panicked whisper, and I saw that she was, unsuccessfully, trying to feign asleep. Poor child looked scared out of whatever wits she had left.

"It's quite alright, Miss Alice." I said, "We are alone."

"We're not. No, we're not." She said with the same whisper. I hesitated. Surely it wouldn't be becoming of me as a nurse, as her caretaker, but in that moment, the dream journal resting under my mattress prompted me.

"I know. I know that she's watching."

Her eyes flew open and she looked at me with what I can only describe as baffled disbelief.

"You know?"

"Hieronymous…" I would be lying if I said the name did not hurt me so, even as it reminded me of the priceless boon he had given to me, "Hieronymous is… dead, Miss Alice."

Alice turned away. I let her keep her silence and retrieved her rabbit toy from where it had been flung to. I could see her thin shoulders moving with every sob.

"I made something for you." Alice said, her voice strained, yet quivering, "It's there, under the chair's leg."

I looked and indeed, folded into even squares, was a piece of paper; it was thin enough not to tilt the chair significantly, but thick enough to slightly alter its incline. Before I knew it, Alice had gotten out of bed and had come to my side. She locked her eyes with mine, expressing more than anything that could have come out of her mouth. Dear Lord, the child was terrified.

"They must not know."

"Doctor Bennett…"

She violently shook her head.

"They must not know. This is for you. Only you."

Her thin fingers wrapped around my closed fist and squeezed with all the feeble strength she could muster.

"I do not know if it will help you – I do not know if there is helping anyone at this point. I might, if I could, but I can't so I won't. But you, dear Mary, please, won't you keep this little secret?"

"I believe my good doctor would have wanted it so, as well." I managed. God rest his soul.

"Thank you." She said, with as graceful a bow as I have ever seen. She, I might even say merrily, returned to her bed and tucked herself in. I carefully stuck the piece of paper in one of the front pockets of my uniform. I glanced around the room to see if anything else had changed. Nothing had. I retrieved her rabbit from where it lay, the stuffed animal watching me intently with one button eye, and placed it by her side. She shifted, but her steady breathing indicated that she was, again, asleep.

I left, but it didn't take me long to find Dean and Daniel, mops in hand, cleaning the floors, with their backs turned to one another. From where I was standing, however, I could see that they had been mopping the same patch of stone, as half of the hallway, namely the half they should have cleaned first, was untouched. Upon noticing me, however, they straightened up, and Daniel (or Dean, as it is quite impossible to tell them apart) picked up his bucket and came to my side. As respectfully as the little misbegotten cretin could manage, he asked me not to step aside but to be on my way.

Of course, Theophilus Carter could not help but bid me, in his words, "a very fine evening" as I passed by his cell.

I entrust Alice's poem to my one companion, namely these pages, as it has been entrusted to me by her. I will burn the original paper after I copy it. Meanwhile, Alice rests, and I can only hope that my dear Hieronymous can, as well.

**Alice's Poem: "Mary"**

_The healing begins, and she watches us bleed_

_she hears our screams and she takes heed_

_the deaf ears of her guardians hear nothing at all_

_but Mary, though helpless, hears our calls._

_Listen in, Mary, for the sound of the night_

_know the shadows, but stay close to the light._

_They are watching you__._


End file.
